Specter
by Elle757
Summary: AU-Magneto was right. Humans are intolerant; the U.S. Government is imprisoning all mutants within its borders. The X-Men must escape and free the other mutants under the eye of an arrogant sociopath. How much are they willing to sacrifice for freedom?R
1. Chapter 1

Hey there!

So, like the description says, "Specter" is a fanfiction piece taking place in an AU, focusing mainly on Nightcrawler (Although not all of the sections are written with an emphasis on him).

Some important things to note about this particular AU are:

-Jean Grey is not currently Pheonix

-When characters die here, they're pretty much dead.

Everything else should be pretty self-explanatory. I hope you enjoy it!

-Elle

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE X-MEN, THE FANTASTIC FOUR, , SPIDER-MAN, IRON MAN, NICK FURY, THE AVENGERS, ALPHA FLIGHT, OR ANY RELATED CHARACTERS/PLACES/OBJECTS ETC. THEY ARE THE PROPERTY OF MARVEL COMICS.**

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**Prologue**

_To do the impossible_

It was inconceivable. No one had ever been able to do it before. No one had ever successfully captured the Master of Magnetism and brought him to trial. How had the United States government, out of all the potential candidates, managed it? When there were so many others vying for the honor. Nobody knew.

How it happened was a very hush-hush affair. "No comment" became the government's slogan. Nothing was confirmed or denied. People were left only with questions.

The only thing officials were willing to discuss was the trial. There was a grand to-do; the media was everywhere, the courthouse was packed to capacity. They were expecting the trial of the century. What they got was a surprise.

He pled guilty. To ALL of it; murder, extortion, theft. He didn't defend himself; he just sat there calmly as the judge sentenced him. The punishment was death by lethal injection.

Then he stood up. He turned to face the cameras. He opened his mouth to speak. "You," he began slowly, "humans, are all fools. You let your fear dominate you, override your judgment. You condemn mutants as a race because of the way we were born. You call us freaks; say we are unnatural, when it is exactly the opposite. We are nature at work; the next step forward in evolution. Change is the only constant of existence; we _are _change, we embody all that is, was, and will be. And yet you scorn us, shun us; even kill us, because you cannot abide by the idea that we are better than you. I submit that anything that we have done has been a direct result of _your_ actions, _your_ intolerance. My crimes are on your hands, Homo sapiens." Then he turned around and sat back down. He didn't say another word to anyone for the rest of his life.

**Part I**

_Because dreams are as the lives of men- fleeting _

There were very few times in Charles Xavier's life that he had had a reason to doubt his dream; the glorious ideal of humans and mutants living together in harmony. Until that fateful day when humans had killed Erik Lehnsherr, Magneto, the mutant terrorist, the X-Men's deadliest foe, and, once, Charles' friend. On that day, his resolve had wavered; people whom he had helped to save, people whose lives had been spared by his efforts, cruelly murdered Erik.

He had been tried, convicted, sentenced to death. Erik had been defiant, proud, sure of himself and the righteousness of his actions. He had known they were going to kill him, and that there wasn't anything he could do about it. He didn't care. It only helped his case, his point of view, to die.

Xavier had gone to the execution, to try to provide…he didn't know what. Comfort? Friendship? Redemption? Acceptance? What he did know was that whatever he had been trying to give, he had failed miserably.

When Charles had attempted to talk to him, Erik had just stared at him, closing his mind to the telepath with shields Charles was too scrupulous to violate. His eyes had said everything. _I told you so._ They seemed to say, _I told you. They have no morals, they're afraid of us, and they're going to kill us all. We should have stopped them; you should have listened to me. Now it's too late. You're all going to die._ They hadn't moved him out of the cell to kill him. They had just gone in with a specially prepared needle and injected him.

That should have been it. He should have just…faded away. But he didn't. He began to shake and writhe on the floor, his mouth began to foam. Charles was horrified. They had poisoned him! And they were all just standing there, looking down. They were all feeling…satisfaction, a horrible kind of delight. It disgusted him. He reached out with his telepathy, almost frantic, but Erik refused to let him in. He just looked at Charles, his eyes still bright and clear; _Goodbye, Charles. I'll see you soon._

Yes, Charles' faith had been shaken that day. Shaken, but not destroyed. He had convinced himself that those were only a few, sick, corrupted individuals. He had felt sorry for them, pitied them. But then…then they hadn't even been tried. No one had seemed to care about what they did; they thought it was right, justified. Charles was even more revolted. But he let it go. Erik HAD done some terrible things; it was only human nature to be angry. But then, that was the problem, wasn't it? That it WAS human nature. That people instinctively turned to anger and hatred. Had Erik been right all along? The question haunted him, but he forced himself to move on. There was too much to do; just because Erik was dead, didn't mean the X-Men had nothing to do.

Then, one day, without any kind of warning whatsoever, the government unleashed thousands of Sentinels. They swarmed all over the entire country, picking up mutants and taking them to these…_camps_; these horrible, vile, concentration camps. Charles couldn't help thinking that Erik would never have let it happen. He would have stopped it before it had even begun. But it didn't matter; it was too late now. Because the X-Men; his children, his family, were mutants. And the sentinels were coming for them.

**Part II**

_The 300 Spartans_

Scott was proud of the students. They weren't panicking. They were terrified, certainly, they were pale, some were crying, but they weren't panicking. They were moving quickly and quietly through the tunnels under the school, toward the helicarriers and the jets with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logos emblazoned on them. They did as the adults of the group directed; they got in and sat down and comforted those who needed it. They all looked determined; yes, they were leaving today, but they would be back, back with a vengeance, and their fury would destroy the sentinels once and for all. Or that's what they thought. Scott knew better. The U.S. probably wouldn't be safe for a long time yet. If the students came back at all, it wouldn't be anytime soon.

Scott was supervising, making sure that the children got out safely. What disgusted him was that they HAD to. They were _children_ God damn it, they'd never done _anything_. And still, the sentinels were coming for them, just because they were mutants. _Well, _he thought, _they aren't going to get them. _He looked around. He was pleasantly surprised with the turnout. Dr. Strange, Spider-Man, Nick Fury, Iron Man, and many others; they'd all come, they'd all recognized how utterly, completely wrong this was, and they'd come to help the X-Men try to stop it. The Avengers and the Fantastic Four were attempting to protect others at the moment, to smuggle them out of the country to safety. The rest were preparing to leave on the same mission after the jets and helicopters had taken off. They were only here in the first place because the School for Gifted Youngsters had the largest concentration of mutants in the country. There was tension in the air, and below that anger. Righteous anger, anger at the situation, about how utterly unjust the entire thing was.

Scott looked over at the Professor as the doors to another jet closed. He was worried about him. Charles was just…staring. This entire thing seemed to have utterly defeated him. It was understandable. The idea, the _theme_ that had held his life together for so long had just been shattered into billions of tiny little pieces. Scott wanted to help him, wanted to tell him something that would make everything seem worthwhile, but he didn't know what to say. So he just walked up to the wheelchair and put his hand on Charles' shoulder, letting him know that he was there, and hoping that would be enough.

Suddenly, a great explosion was heard from upstairs, and the roof shook slightly. All activity stopped for a moment, and then commenced double-pace. They were out of time. Scott turned and ran toward the stairs that led to the house. He was already in costume; they had been anticipating this. He ran into Nightcrawler as he materialized with some children, and took the express to the foyer. When he got there he was met with chaos. They X-Men were battling sentinels with everything they had. Wolverine was ripping them to pieces with his adamantium claws; Jean was tearing them apart with her telekinesis; Iceman was skating around and freezing them where they stood. Yet, despite all of their efforts, they were losing. There were too many; thousands, all coming forward. The X-Men were only human despite what everyone said; they would tire eventually. They weren't really even trying to win; they were trying to keep the sentinels away long enough for the children to get out. Scott grimly raised his hand to his visor and plunged into the fray.

Four hours later, everyone was utterly exhausted. And the sentinels were still coming. The jets had taken off only half an hour ago; there had been some technical difficulties getting them off the ground with so many people in them. Eventually, some of the heroes had left the fight to provide assistance. Some of the X-Men had been captured, some killed. They'd lost track. The remaining X-Men would probably follow them soon, but not without a fight. Scott was guarding the X-Men's wounded behind part of what used to be a wall.

Nightcrawler teleported over next to Scott for the umpteenth time that day, almost collapsing with the effort. He looked awful. What he was wearing didn't really qualify as a costume anymore; his fur was singed; he was cut, bruised, bleeding. Wolverine was worse; 'Crawler had obviously 'ported him back here to heal; he looked pretty out of it. Hank walked over to them; Logan was sprawled on the ground, and Nightcrawler was crouched low, panting. He looked up at Beast and gave him an exhausted smile.

"Another one for you, mein freund." He said, "He should be fine soon enough, but I just thought a safer place to heal was in order." Hank moved to look Wolverine over and began talking to Kurt as assessed the damage.

"You know," he said, "You're not in much better shape than he is. It would do you good to stay back here and let me patch you up."

"And miss all of the fun? Nein, mein freund, the Incredible Nightcrawler still has work to do," and with that, a soft "BAMF", and a sulfurous cloud of smoke, he was gone.

Scott shifted so that he had a better shot at the sentinels around the wall. He was angry. He should have been out there, fighting with the rest of the X-Men. It wasn't that bad, really. It just hurt a lot, but pain was something that Scott was used to dealing with. _Stop that,_ he told himself, _it doesn't hurt. Something that's not there can't hurt. _He stole a quick glance at the spot where his right arm used to be, then looked away. It was better not to look. At least those kids were safe. They had gotten away. What was an arm compared to half a dozen lives? He zapped an already staggering sentinel from behind the wall, finishing it off. He would have asked Hank if he could leave- he was a leader, he should be out there with his team- but the good doctor had already denied him at least a hundred times, and Scott had finally resigned himself to staying here half an hour ago.

**Part III**

_Perseverance _

Wolverine was coming around, sitting up, and shaking his head back and forth to clear it. He could hear the battle raging, smell the blood, the death the sharp scent of the sentinels. He didn't know where he was, but he knew where he should be. Hank had moved off by this time, tending to someone else. He lurched to his feet, shook his head one last time, and charged, roaring, back into the battle. Nobody tried to stop him. Not that they could have if they'd wanted to.


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE X-MEN, OR ANY RELATED CHARACTERS/PLACES/OBJECTS ETC. THEY ARE THE PROPERTY OF MARVEL COMICS.**

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**Part IV**

_In the wake of disaster_

"When are you going to learn that you're not indestructible mein freund?" Nightcrawler asked an unconscious Wolverine softly. He thought Logan was probably okay. Kurt had been the first to wake up. He didn't think the sentinels would have taken anyone who was dead with them, so he was counting on the fact that everyone here was still alive. He tried not to look to see who wasn't there.

At least all of the children were safe. Jean, Rogue, Brian and Meggan would make sure of that. Some of the X-Men must have been captured by different Sentinels because he knew they were alive, but they weren't here. He looked around, trying to figure out who was the most badly hurt. Storm was unconscious, but looked as well as could be expected. Iceman had been shattered into a billion pieces, but 'Crawler knew he could reform. Colossus was knocked out- he didn't know how they'd managed that. Scott was…well Scott looked awful. The bandage and quick stitches that had been keeping his shoulder from bleeding were gone. He was definitely the worst off. Kurt grabbed Ororo's cape and hastened over to Scott binding the wound as quickly and securely as he knew how. He checked the others over, but there wasn't really anything he could do to help them. He went and sat by Storm, closing his eyes, and trying not to see their faces.

Warren. Remy. Betsy. Hank. And those were just the ones he knew about. There could be more. There probably were. Gone. Dead. Just because they were mutants. He didn't even know why they were still alive. Shouldn't they be dead? Wouldn't it have been easier to just kill them? They certainly had shown no intention of coming quietly. He tugged at the inhibitor color fastened around his neck, running his fingers over it, trying to find some way to get it off. He knew it was probably useless. But he needed to _do_ something, so that he could think. He couldn't just sit there. There had to be a way out of here. There just had to.

He sat there, puzzling over it for half an hour, then turned his mind to other things; maybe removing himself from the problem would help him to think of its solution, to look at it from a different, previously unexplored perspective. He thought about why they were there, why they weren't dead. He was pretty sure the sentinels knew they'd be trouble. Knew they'd try to get out whenever they could. Why was it worth the effort? What did they want? They'd probably rounded up all the mutants in America by now, so it wasn't like they needed the X-Men to…

Suddenly, it came to him. He knew why they needed the X-Men, and it made him sick. They thought that they were going to tell them where the planes went. They thought that they would give up the location of the children to them, so that they could capture them too.

"Think again, you verdammt machine," he muttered under his breath.

**Part V**

_Peace_

Scott slowly swam his way back to consciousness. It was like wading through a swamp or running uphill in sand; exhausting. He wouldn't have bothered. He knew he was dying. He could feel it; he had already seen the tunnel, the light. But he had to ignore them for a while; he was Scott Summers, leader of the X-Men; death would just have to wait in line.

He needed to talk to someone, leave them with instructions. And he needed to say goodbye to Jean.

What hurt him most was that he wouldn't get to see her again. That he wouldn't get to tell her how much he loved her. Because he did; he loved her more than he could say; she was everything to him. Every time he saw her, she filled him with happiness. When she laughed it was like the sweetest music, when she smiled at him everything was right with the world. He had tried so many times to tell her how much she meant to him, but he didn't have the words. It always came out as "I love you."

The phrase seemed so inadequate to what they shared, seemed to mean so little in the face of so much. But it was all he could give. I love you.

He remembered the last time he had seen her. Right before she'd left with the children. It had been a hurried goodbye; there hadn't been much time, but it had also been a desperate, almost frantic one. They both realized they might never see each other again. They'd kissed, long and hard and passionately, as if trying to put everything they felt towards one another into that single action. They'd said goodbye, he'd whispered "I love you."

_I love you, I love you, I love you_; the words echoed in his head, pulling him back from the edge for a little while longer. Three little words that meant everything and almost nothing; I love you.

He opened his eyes, and saw Kurt crouched next to him. He listened to his report. There was no way out. They were wearing inhibitor collars. Warren and Hank would be waiting for him when he got where he was going. He felt selfish for thinking it, but he was glad he wouldn't be alone. He asked about the children; he was too scared to ask about Jean. He was suddenly terrified at the thought that she was waiting for him. What if she was dead? 'Crawler understood what he meant. He told Scott Jean and the children were safe. Scott suddenly felt peaceful. He could die now. _I love you,_ he thought, even though he knew she couldn't hear.

He gathered his strength for one final request,

"Kurt…" Scott muttered, "Injuries…too severe…dying. Look out for…the team…tell Jean…I love her…" and he let go.

As he fell into the abyss, sped towards the light, he called back to her through their rapport. He didn't know if she would get the message, but it didn't matter. _Jean_, He thought, his mind calm and at peace for once, _I love you._

**Part VI**

_Now and Forever_

Far, far away, Jean, flying over the countryside, heard him. She cried silently. She felt as though she had been ripped to pieces, as though some gigantic hand had crumpled her into a ball and crushed her in a fist. _I love you too, Scott_, she thought, _now and forever._

**Part VII**

_Protocol_

Kurt was shocked. He hadn't thought…well, he knew that Scott had lost a lot of blood, but he hadn't said anything until a moment ago about it. Kurt hadn't expected…

Before he really even had time to react, the giant metal monster they were riding in stopped moving abruptly.

[MUTANT ENTITY KNOWN AS "CYCLOPS" ALIAS "SCOTT SUMMERS" HAS BEEN TERMINATED. CORRECT PROCEDURE: IMMEDIATE DISPOSAL OF REMAINS. COMPLYING WITH PROCEDURE.]

The sentinel reached into the bubble with a metallic hand and grabbed Scott's body. Nightcrawler grabbed it, held on. He should bring it back. For Jean. For Alex. For the Professor. He didn't think about how impossible that was; only that it was the right thing to do. The sentinel shook him of as if he were an annoying insect. It activated the disintegrator beam on its palm, and destroyed the body.

[PROCEDURE COMPLETED. PROCEEDING TO CAMP 00789 WITH MUTANT TEAM COLLECTIVELY KNOWN AS X-MEN.]

Nightcrawler sat; stunned by what he had seen as they continued on their way to the place he now knew to be called "Camp 00789".


	3. Chapter 3

**Part VIII**

_Pryde and Mourning_

Kitty Pryde woke up in a sterile, cold, white cell, with a shimmering field of light for a door, wearing an inhibitor collar. She was lying on a hard, white surface that she supposed was some sadist's version of a bed. She groaned, and then sat up slowly, shaking her head.

"Katzchen?" a voice filled with tension called from across the room, "Are you awake?"

Kitty looked through the force field to see a cell identical to her own across the hall, holding Kurt Wagner, the demonic-looking man who had become like a brother to her. He was wearing a gray jumpsuit with the number 4201 in the upper right corner. She was wearing the same thing, except hers said 4509.

"Kurt," she said blearily, "What's going on? Where are we? I remember the sentinels… Kurt, the children, did they-?" she was alert now, sounding tense.

"Calm down, Katzchen," Kurt soothed, "The children all got away. Were at a holding facility called Camp 00789, and, as far as I can tell, we're here for questioning."

"Questioning? About what?" She asked.

"They want to know where the children are." Kurt said grimly, "No one's planning on enlightening them."

That made Kitty's notorious temper flare "Why those-" she started, and continued by calling the people in question a string of swear words that would have humbled a sailor. What gave them the right to condemn anyone, let alone innocent children, to the half-life lived by the mutants in these camps? How could anyone be so sadistic, so cruel? She paced the cell, ranting, for a long time, while Kurt waited patiently until she calmed down. Finally, she asked, "Where are the others?"

"Lorna, Alex, and Piotr are still unconscious," Kurt began, sounding anxious once more, "I haven't seen Bishop anywhere. They took Storm and Wolverine with them a while ago. Bobby is reforming." He gestured with his tail to the left. _Shouldn't Bobby already be reformed by now?_ She thought.

"Why is it taking him so long?" she asked.

"Inhibitor collar," he replied, "Logan was healing slowly as well."

"Is that all of us?" she asked, slightly confused, "where did everyone go? Did they take them somewhere else?"

Kurt was silent for a moment. He didn't want to make her more upset than she already was, but he couldn't lie to her…

"Katzchen," he said slowly, "Hank, Warren, Betsy and Remy didn't make it."

Kitty sat on the cot, in shock, staring at the wall. How could they be dead? How could this happen? She wasn't crying. The tears would come soon, she knew. Everything just felt cold right now. Cold and surreal.

"Scott. What happened to Scott?" she said, her voice sounding dead, even to her.

"He…he died on the way here," replied Kurt, silently cursing himself for not saying Scott's name with the others. But he hadn't wanted to remember. Somehow, it was as if saying made it more real. And, more than anything, Kurt was hoping this was some kind of nightmare that he'd wake up from. Kitty just nodded and continued staring at the wall. Her inactivity frightened Kurt more than her bursting into tears would have. "Katzchen…?" he said hesitantly.

"I'm fine!" she snapped back at him. There was silence. Kitty got up and started pacing the room again, staring at everything as if it had committed some unspeakable crime. This wasn't fair. It wasn't right. The X-Men spent their whole lives protecting these people, and in return they were murdered! Slaughtered! Thrown away like so much garbage! She kicked the wall, which didn't accomplish anything except making her foot hurt. She wanted to…to _do_ something about it, to show these people how much pain they were causing the X-Men, the families of the dead…her. She felt tears welling up in her eyes, tears of pain, of anger. She wiped them away violently.

Kurt watched all this, his heart breaking for her. She needed someone. To be there with her, so that she could release all of the emotions that were building up inside of her. So that she could cry.

Kurt gathered his strength. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to 'port at all wearing this collar, and if, by some miracle, he was able to, it would most likely be very painful, not to mention utterly exhausting. He wouldn't be able to do it more than once. But he had to try. Kitty needed him, and Kurt was never one to ignore someone in need. He waited a few more moments, sending up a silent prayer. _Our Father, who art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy name…_**BAMF**.

Kurt appeared a fraction of a second later, by Kitty's side, half unconscious, feeling worse than he'd felt in his entire life. He stumbled over to the bed, and collapsed on top of it.

"Kurt!" cried Kitty, and ran over to him, "Kurt, are you alright? Why did you do that?!?! It could have killed you!"

"Ah, Katzchen," Kurt said smiling, his voice betraying how much the 'port had cost him, "You know I could never resist a damsel in distress. You didn't really think I'd leave you over here all by yourself, did you?"

Kitty started to laugh, but ended up sobbing into Kurt's shoulder. He sat there, and held her, and rocked her back and forth, murmuring comforting things until she fell asleep, completely drained. It had been the worst day of both of their lives; truth be told, Kurt was just as upset as Kitty was, but Scott had told him to look after his team, and Kurt would never deny a friend his dying wish. So he sat there holding Kitty, and put his emotions aside. They would have to wait.

**Part IX**

_No more hiding_

A few hours later, Kurt heard a door open down the hall. He gently set a sleeping Kitty Pryde down on the "bed" and moved toward the force field, to peer into the hallway. They were dragging an unconscious Wolverine back into the room by the arms; it looked like he'd gone down fighting; his claws were out. They shoved him into a cell; Kurt was surprised to see that it was humans moving him; he would have expected sentinels. They began to walk down the hall and check the cells one by one, looking in on the prisoners. They stopped when they got to his. They looked around, almost panicking until they saw him in Kitty's cell. He wasn't hiding. He stood tall, defiant. Let them face what they had damned. They turned off the force field and dragged him out roughly. He fought them every step of the way, even though he was too tired to see straight, and he felt like his whole body was on fire. Somebody smacked him on the head with a club. He stopped struggling, dazed. He promised God he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of his screams.

**Part X**

_Déjà Vu _

Piotr Rasputin woke up in a cold, hard room, full of cold, hard objects that barely qualified as furniture. He didn't know where he was, and the only other person he could see was a mostly-regenerated Iceman in a holding cell across from his. Bobby didn't look like he really wanted to talk (Colossus wasn't even sure he could right now) so he called out, "Katya? Kurt? Scott?" and hoped for an answer.

"Piotr?" Was the immediate reply from somewhere to his right. "Piotr, are you alright?" It was Katya.

"Yes, Kitty, I am fine. Where are we?" he asked.

"We're somewhere called Camp 00789, according to Kurt. For questioning." she answered.

"Where is everyone? I can only see Iceman from where I am, and the only other person I have talked to is you."

"Warren, Hank, Betsy, Remy, and Scott are dead," she said quickly, as if wanting to get it over with, "Logan's here…I tried talking to him, but he just growled at me. There's something wrong with him. They took Storm a long time ago; no one's seen her since. Kurt said that Lorna and Alex were here somewhere, and that he hasn't seen Bishop at all. Kurt was in here for a while, but I fell asleep, and now his cell is empty…" she trailed off.

Piotr was shocked. So many dead? In one day? How was it possible? He felt incredibly sad, as if he had lost his family all over again, as though someone had ripped a hole through him. He sat in silence for a while. "Did the children get away?" he asked eventually.

"Yes," said Kitty, "that's why we're here. They want us to tell them where they are." The very thought made Colossus angry. How could anyone think that they would be as vile as to hand innocent children over to people who wanted to hurt them?

Before he could really think about any of the information he'd just received, Kitty and Piotr heard the door open. They moved to the front of their cells to see what was happening. It was Kurt. They were pulling him in by the arms. He looked terrible. His feet and tail were dragging on the ground, leaving faint streaks of blood on the tile. He looked semi-conscious; his eyes were open, but unfocused. There were lacerations all over him, and what looked like electrical burns. The humans shoved him back into his cell and walked off.

"Kurt? Kurt?" Called Kitty when they had gone, a note of hysteria in her voice.

"Katzchen," came the hoarse whisper, "Don't worry, I'm alright. I want you and Piotr to promise me something, ja?"

"Okay," Kitty said, "What is it?"

"Don't do anything to make them angry unless it's absolutely necessary." He said.

There was silence. "Promise?" The voice was strained; he wasn't going to give up unless they gave him their words.

"Okay, Kurt. Promise," said Kitty quietly.

"I, also, Tovarisch," replied Colossus.

"Good. Now, try not to get into trouble until I wake up, ja? Though, with you two, that's probably impossible." The voice had a forced lightheartedness to it. He was still trying to be upbeat, optimistic, as always. Piotr listened to Kurt's breathing slow and sat down on his bed. Their stay here was not going to be pleasant. He knew it, and for the first time in a very long while, he was afraid.

**Part XI**

_Welcome to Hell_

Kurt lay on the cot in an uneasy sleep. His tail twitched in agitation, and he kept shifting, turning. "Nein, Nein…Bitte, Nein!" He muttered softly, flinching away from something that wasn't there. His tail twisted around his leg. He was reliving the worst day of his life.

They had taken him out of the room, down a hallway that had looked exactly like the one they had just come through, full of cells holding other mutants. Most were unconscious. A few looked up at him with dead eyes, their spirits broken. He wanted to stay, to comfort them; he tried to slow the guards down, make them stop. He pulled against them, twisting around and trying to make them lose their grip on him.

"Move, ya stinkin' mutie!" snarled one of them. The other kicked him hard in the stomach, and he doubled over. They kept pulling him onwards. He lost track of where they were going; everywhere was the same. They started passing empty cells. _For the children, _He thought. That made him angry, gave him strength. He stood up, walked. He wasn't going to let them drag him anymore. They moved through dozens of identical corridors, until they came to a set of black doors. The guards opened them, brought him inside, and chained him to a steel bed frame. The chains bit into his wrists and ankles. The next few hours would be Hell.

They weren't even trying to get information out of him. They were just beating him, whipping him, cutting him. They gave him electrical shocks that could have-_should_ have- killed him. They didn't _want_ anything, they were just punishing him. They laughed as they did it, joked. He didn't scream, or whimper, or plead. He just took it, over and over again. Physical pain was bearable. At least they weren't punishing the others. He thought of poor Scott, how he had died a captive, in pain, without hope. He didn't want that to happen to anyone else. He would do _anything _to prevent it.

When it was almost too much, when it got so bad that he thought he HAD to scream, he would pray softly in German. It gave him strength, increased his resolve. He could endure this. He would.

He didn't know how long he was there. Maybe a few hours; it seemed like an eternity. When they finally released him, he tried to stand, but couldn't. They dragged him back the way they had come.

On the way to his cell, they met some workers moving what looked like stretchers. The guards called cheerfully down the hall to them, and they replied in the same tone. Then one of the gurneys they were rolling in front of them fell over; its wheel had been broken and had jammed, causing the entire thing to topple onto the ground.

What Kurt saw next hurt him more than anything the torturers could possibly have done to him. When the stretcher fell over, the white sheet that had been covering the thing on top of it fell off. It was a scene from his worst nightmare.

Ororo now lay sprawled on the ground in front of him, dead. Her clear, blue, sightless eyes stared at the ceiling, her bloodstained costume half-on, half –off. The prospect of what they'd done to her made him feel physically ill. The look on her face was proud, defiant; like she had fought until the end. Kurt was sure she had. That didn't make it any better.

He forgot about the pain. It didn't matter. It didn't matter that he could barely move for exhaustion, didn't matter that he still couldn't think straight because of the electricity that had been running through his body that day. All that mattered was that Ororo was dead, and that she was just lying there, staring at nothing…

"Nein!" he yelled, and lunged forward violently. The guards weren't expecting him to try anything, so they weren't prepared. He threw them off and ran to her side, knelt next to her, even as tranquilizer darts hit him in the back. He felt the life draining from his limbs, felt the irresistible pull of darkness, but he denied it, rejected it for a few moments longer. He reached down with trembling fingertips and closed her eyes, then sank into oblivion, collapsing on top of her.

He barely remembered waking up, barely remembered being put back in his cell, or making Kitty and Piotr promise not to make the guards mad. All he really remembered was her eyes staring into space, and that look that told him to _keep on fighting_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part XII**

_Shadowcat_

Kitty sat hugging her knees on the cot, waiting in silence. She and Piotr had talked for a while, but it had just felt…wrong, with the rest of the place being so quiet. She thought he might be asleep. She watched Kurt twitch and mutter as he dreamt. They never sent anyone to treat him for his wounds; luckily it didn't look like he was going to die from them; they were all over him, but most of them were pretty shallow. She was still worried about him. And Ororo- she hadn't heard anything about her at all; she'd tried to talk to Logan, tried to get him to tell her what happened, but he never said anything, just growled and paced around his cell, like a caged animal. She was trying not to think about all the horrible things that could have happened to him…to Kurt…to Ororo. She was trying not to think about Scott and Warren and Hank and Remy and Betsy, trying not to think about the fact that they were dead. She felt tears sting her eyes again, and wiped them away angrily. This wasn't the time. She needed to be strong. Her teammates needed her- needed her as an equal, as a comrade, whom they could count on. They didn't need a child. They needed _Shadowcat_.

**Part XIII**

_Animal_

HuntblooddeathscentSoundfeardeathhuntTastefeelpreycatchkillBoneclawfleshmuscleheartblood. The words all ran together in his head, chasing each other in circles. They told him he was a predator; that he lived to catch prey. They told him he was an animal, that life was food and hunting and fighting. They didn't tell him that he had a family, the X-Men, and an obligation to them. They didn't tell him he was a man, and that there was more to life than instinct. No, Logan had to tell himself that. He had to pull himself out of the abyss of insanity and back to being human. His healing factor helped, certainly, but it was mostly him. And he was ready.

**Part XIV**

_Guilt_

Charles Xavier sat in silence in the back of the X-Jet full of students. He hadn't said a word since the news had first come that the sentinels were on the way. He still wasn't talking.

Not that anyone was much in the mood for conversation. As far as they knew, everyone who was left at the mansion was dead. When the sentinels had come, they had started up some kind of electromagnetic interference that was blocking all telepathic communications. Many of the students were crying softly as they made their way north. They were going to Canada, with special permission from the Prime Minister to bypass conventional channels, courtesy of Alpha Flight. They would land in Ontario in four hours time, and then be given temporary accommodation while the government tried to reason with their neighbors.

Refugees. They were refugees now; without homes, without places to return to. Their country had turned on them. Land of the free…of course it was. IF you fit the profile. Not if you were a mutant. Not if you were one of Xavier's students. His children, his family…

He had been looking for them, looking for their telepathic signatures, trying to bypass the barriers the sentinels had put in place. He couldn't find them. He kept looking. Two hours. Three. Three and a half. They were almost in Ontario. He just needed a few more minutes. He could find them if he just had a few more seconds…

Xavier was getting desperate. He knew that once he got off the plane there would be no more time to look for his students. He would be expected to lead, expected to make arrangements, help with the organization, and thank diplomats. Once he got off of that plane it was over. Done with. He didn't want to give up, didn't want to lose them…but he had responsibilities. The children were counting on him. They needed him. He couldn't let them down like he'd done with the X-Men. He didn't want them to be afraid anymore. It was his obligation, his duty to be there for them.

So, when the plane landed and the officials showed up, he got out and helped direct traffic. He comforted the children, got the older ones, the ones who had more control, to help him console the younger ones. He extended his gratitude to the Canadian government. He gave a speech about "dark times" and "bright futures". He worked; he was calm, efficient, and resourceful. But everything he did was empty. His actions, his words; they didn't have any meaning to him. All that mattered was that when his children had needed him, he had let them down. He hadn't done anything to save them. That made everything else worth nothing.

When the day was finally over, when he had been provided with a hotel suite to stay in, and told to call if he needed anything, Charles sat in the dark. Alone. Alone with himself and his pain and his guilt. Alone with the knowledge that he might have saved them if he had acted. That they might not be dead if he had. Because they were dead. He knew it now. They were all dead, and gone, and they were never coming back. And it was his fault.

Charles Xavier sat alone in the hotel room with his thoughts all through the night. He sat by himself and wept for his children.

**Part XV**

_Cold as Ice _

Piotr Rasputin woke up in a cold sweat. He didn't scare easily, but his dreams had been full of screaming children, of fire, of death and despair. He shivered and looked around. It was something about this place, he decided. Something about the sterility of his surroundings, of the cold, unfeeling aura they exuded that made people think of such things. It killed part of the soul.

He heard soft footsteps on tile. It didn't sound like the distinctive click of boots, more like bare feet than anything. But there was something odd about it; there was a little 'clack' sound to it like…like ice on the floor.

Piotr moved to the front of the cell and peered out, immediately seeing what he had expected to. Iceman was pacing back and forth across the tiny enclosed space across from his, looking worried.

"Tovarisch," Colossus called out softly, "It is good to see you that you are back with us. How are you?" Bobby jumped when Piotr first spoke, but grinned at him when he had finished.

"I'm cool," he replied, "get it? Cool?" When Colossus didn't laugh he smiled sheepishly and continued, "Yeah, pretty lame. Hey, Peter, what's going on here? I woke up in this cell, and everybody else was asleep. How'd we get here? The last thing I remember was beating the crap out of some sentinels."

"Unfortunately, my friend," Colossus replied grimly, "the sentinels 'beat the crap out of' us. They brought us to this place. It is called Camp 00789, and we are being held captive so that they may question us about the location of the children and the Professor."

Bobby frowned. "Hold up, they don't really think we'll tell 'em, do they?" he asked.

Piotr shrugged. "They must, otherwise we would not still be alive." He answered.

"Sick bastards," Bobby said darkly, "Thinking we'd just hand 'em the kids. Where is everyone? Where're the rest of the X-Men?" he asked, rapidly changing the subject.

"Nightcrawler, Shadowcat, Wolverine, Polaris, Havok, Storm, Bishop, you and I are everyone. The others are all dead." Colossus said gravely.

Bobby was stunned into silence. Warren? Scott? Hank? They'd been together for so long, been through so much; he didn't think…well, sure, they'd had a few close calls, but it'd always turned out alright. "I…I can't believe it…" he said, almost to himself, "So much has happened…we've pulled through so many times…well, I guess I got to thinking that we were immortal or something. Pretty stupid, huh?" he smiled sadly, looking at Colossus.

Piotr shook his head, "Nyet," he said, "I understand. The X-Men have been so lucky in the past…rarely does any of our number die. To lose so many comrades at once…it is…overwhelming." Bobby nodded. He got up from where he was sitting on the cot and stretched. "So, what's the plan?" he asked.

Piotr's eyes flickered over to a cell on Bobby's left. "I do not know, Tovarisch." He said quietly, "Katya and I spoke of strategy briefly, but we did not want to discuss it without Kurt. He has more knowledge of our prison than the rest of us, and he may have other information we do not. Also there is the problem with Logan," he glanced to Icceman's right in the direction of the softly growling Wolverine. "He is…not himself at the moment. I do not know if he will be able to help us, or how to get him out of here if he cannot."

Suddenly Kurt sat bolt upright in his cell, turning his head wildly, as if he were looking for something.

"Kurt? Tovarisch? Is something the matter?" asked Colossus, his concern for his friend echoed in his voice.

Kurt looked over at Colossus. He seemed confused for a moment, as if he didn't recognize him, or didn't know where he was. Then it passed and appeared to be alright again, besides looking extremely grim.

"Ja, Colossus, many things are 'the matter' right now," he replied, "but none of them are going to kill us at the moment, so they are not our immediate concerns." Bobby and Piotr looked at each other. That didn't sound like Kurt. It sounded angry, frustrated, almost bitter. What was going on?

Kurt noticed their exchange of glances and made a visible effort to relax. "Ach, forgive me, meine freundin," he said, smiling slightly, "It has been a…trying twenty-four hours. I see you have rejoined the land of the living, Bobby," he continued, really smiling now, happy to see his teammate back on his feet, "It is good to see you in one piece again." Bobby grinned back. _Maybe Kurt is really fine._ _Maybe there is nothing wrong, and we are just jumping to conclusions_, thought Colossus. Still, he made a note to keep an eye on him. He had not looked good earlier. As a matter of fact, he still didn't.

Bobby was just noticing this. "Dude, what happened?" he asked, his expression vaguely horrified.

"Don't worry." Kurt reassured, "it's nothing serious." His face split into an even wider grin. "'You should see the other guy.'" He said. They all laughed at that, and the tension was momentarily relieved. Then Kurt thought about what had happened, and his expression brought them all back to grim reality once more. "Piotr, would you be so kind as to wake Lorna and Alex? They are to your left," he said, "There are matters that require our immediate attention. As X-Men."


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Hi there! I figured that if you've made it through fifteen parts already, there must be something you find intriguing about Specter. I also feel the need to explain certain things, since (I hope) you're going to keep reading.

There are two things in this story with which I have very little experience. The first is German; I don't speak it, and none of the translators can seem to agree with each other, so forgive me if it doesn't always come out right. =D The second is Catholicism. Yes, it would be a very good idea on my part to research this, so that I don't offend anyone, but the problem is I can't figure out where to start. There's so much information on it everywhere, and everything I use in Specter is so specific, I'm not sure where to look. If I do something completely off, please tell me so I can fix it; I want it to be authentic. If you have anything to say about this story, please review it; I like knowing what people think about what I write. Be honest; I'm a big fan of constructive criticism.

That's about it; thanks for reading; I hope you're enjoying it!

(Wow, that's a lot of semicolons...)

-Elle

* * *

**Part XVI**

_Passing the baton_

When he had all of the X-Men's attention, Kurt stood at the front of his cell and spoke in the carrying voice of a performer.

"As it stands, our situation is dire," he said, without preamble, "We are trapped here with no apparent way out, and we cannot count on help from the outside. We need to escape, and quickly. Every second we waste could mean life or death for another mutant."

His eyes sparkled with determination and intensity.

"There are approximately one hundred prisoners in this section of the compound. There may be more outside; when we were being brought in I heard guards shouting at some mutants on the grounds. They were ordering them to work faster; since we are not being used in this way, we must assume there are others. There are twenty hallways in this place, each with ten cells. The extra one hundred are probably for the children." There was swearing and angry muttering from the rest of the X-Men.

"There are no obvious exits. Besides the doors which connect the hallways, only one other pair of black doors is visible, at the end of the final hallway. It leads to the torture chamber." His voice was carefully controlled, but his eyes were haunted. "If there is any way out of this verdammt place, it is on the other side of those doors." He was sure; there was no other spot in the compound the exit could be. They'd blindfolded him before taking him inside, presumably so he couldn't plan an escape route, so he hadn't seen them, but he knew they were there. After all, where else would people like these put the only way out of this Hell? Past the ninth circle was the only answer.

"We must devise a plan to get ourselves and the other prisoners out of here as quickly and efficiently as possible. Simultaneously, we need to destroy as much of their equipment as we can, so that they do not possess the means to follow and recapture us. Bearing this in mind, Let me make one thing perfectly clear,"

His gaze was so penetrating that those who could see him thought he must be looking at their souls.

"No matter what happens, we are still X-Men. **We do not kill**. I am just as angry as you are about what they have done to us and our kind; it is not right, and it is not fair. I want revenge for our friends as much as you do, I want those torturers, those sadists, to feel as we do, Lord forgive me. But we all know that we have to be better than that. We have to set an example; we have always stood for peace and acceptance, and if we let our rage and grief overwhelm us, they will truly have won, for we will have lost everything we are."

"I am afraid a must once again be the bearer of unhappy tidings," he rushed on, "Storm has been murdered."

There was instant uproar. Angry voices echoed throughout the hallway, cursed the bitches and sons of bitches, damned them, condemned them to Hell.

"Achtung!" Kurt shouted, regaining some measure of control, "What are we doing? This will solve nothing! Look at us! We act like those who imprison us here! Our first reaction to an offense is anger; is this not how we came to be in this place? Isn't it because someone turned to anger first that our race was condemned? Hard as it is," he pushed on, though everyone was clearly still enraged, "we must accept the deaths of our friends and keep going. This isn't about us or what we feel; it's about innocent people dying if we can't forgo the desire for revenge. Yes, what they have done and will do to us is wrong. Yes, they will pay for their crimes. But for now we must accept the past and learn to live in the present, or we sacrifice the lives of thousands."

**Part XVII**

_The Prince (__1)_

Dameon Lancaster was upset. To put it mildly.

"Upset" for Dameon meant that the Department of National Security of the United States was going to have to get him a new head technician. Because the old one was lying on the floor with a bullet through his skull.

When they came to take the body away, he didn't even look up. He just said, "Take this as a lesson. Failure is not acceptable." Nobody answered him. They were too scared.

The tech hadn't done his job. Yes, the X-Men had been unexpected. They were all supposed to have been killed by the sentinels. But that was no excuse. The tech was inadequate, and now Dameon didn't know what was going on in Cell Block A. There were no cameras.

He couldn't hear what they were saying, couldn't even read their lips; there were no recording devices of any kind in that hallway. Dameon was out of control. He _hated_ being out of control.

He fingered the panel below him. He was watching the others. Most of them just sat quietly and stared at the wall. He'd already tried them. They were dead to him now. He just couldn't kill them.

Mass murder was too much for the public to handle. They had to think he was just keeping them safe, not killing all of the mutants. It irked him. He only had twenty-four bodies. But he had one hundred seventy four screams.

He liked to hear them scream. He recorded all of the sessions, so that he could listen to them later. To him, it was like a symphony orchestra, or a choir of angels.

These X-Men were irritating. They didn't scream. The women hadn't screamed when they tortured her. She hadn't told them anything. She was a body now.

The Canadian hadn't screamed, either. He'd growled when they'd driven him over the edge. Killed some people. It had served them right; they had been careless; he told them to watch out for that one. It was okay, though. Dameon wasn't that picky about _who_ screamed. Their terror had been delicious.

This Bishop character wasn't screaming. He wasn't saying anything, actually. Dameon was getting bored. But he didn't want to kill him. He was a perfect test subject for Dameon's new toys.

The blue one was the only person who said anything at all. Dameon had listened to it over and over. He'd translated it into English. It confused him. The man had the best reason to hate everyone. Dameon had looked him up; he had never been accepted in society, had always been mistreated. But when he was being tortured, he was praying. To God. That was strange enough in itself. Part of it was traditional stuff; Dameon had heard it before, when he went to church out of curiosity. But part of the time it was something different. Part of the time he was asking God to _forgive them_. To forgive the men who were torturing him. Dameon, for the life of him, couldn't figure out why anyone would do that. He would have cursed his torturers, wished for their suffering. It was a mystery. Dameon hated mysteries.

He looked at the current footage of Bishop. He was still glaring defiantly at his tormentors. He still wasn't screaming.

Dameon caressed the sleek helmet that had come to be known as Cerebro on the seat next to him and smiled. He would make the X-Men scream.

**Part XVIII**

_Riding the wind_

Kurt missed Ororo. It felt like an ache in his soul. It wouldn't go away, and no matter how hard he tried not to remember it, it always ended up foremost in his thoughts. He knew he didn't have time; they had to get out of here, but he just couldn't stop seeing her face. Couldn't stop thinking of those eyes, hearing her voice.

She had always accepted him for who he was. It had never mattered to her what he looked like. He thought that maybe she didn't see the world quite like everyone else; she saw what you were on the inside; where it counted. He thought that she could look at people with those blue eyes, and see straight through to your soul. And where other people might be uncomfortable with that idea, Kurt had always hoped that it was true.

She had given so much. It seemed so unfair that she, of all people, should die. He fingered the crucifix around his neck. He didn't know what to pray for. Ororo hadn't believed in the Lord; she'd had her own religion, her own Goddess. He didn't think he should ask Him to bring her to a place she didn't believe in.

Suddenly, there was a slight breeze in Kurt's cell. He could smell the wind coming off the ocean, the desert after a storm. He could feel crisp night air, and it took him back to the night they had danced on the wind, together, twirling amongst the stars. She had been the most beautiful thing in the world that night…

He smiled. He knew what to ask. It was so obvious. All Ororo had ever wanted was to be part of nature, part of mother Earth, in harmony with the world. He got down on his knees and prayed that she would ride with the winds forever.

**Part XIX**

_Getting Angry_

Kitty felt like a black hole had just formed in front of her. Like a giant monster had just opened its hideous maw, and was remorselessly devouring her life. Everything she cared about was being ripped to pieces before her very eyes, and there didn't seem to be anything she could do about it.

Ororo had been like her mother. She'd always been there for Kitty, she was her Kitten, and she loved her unconditionally. Her absence hurt her like a physical blow. And knowing that she was never coming back…she didn't want to think about it, didn't want to deal with it.

She was tired of being angry. She just sat on her cot and cried silently. It was funny; she hadn't thought she had any tears left after mourning Scott and the others. How wrong she had been.

She wanted everything to be back to the way it had been before this whole mess had started. She wanted to be at the mansion with the X-Men. She missed the laughter echoing through the halls, the good humor of the students and the other X-Men, the pranks, the jokes. She missed normality.

She stifled a sob. She didn't want Kurt to think he had to come over here again; she knew he would, and then he'd get in trouble, and they'd take him away…and maybe this time he wouldn't come back.

So she tried to be as quiet as possible. It went on for hours. She supposed it was well past midnight now, everyone else was asleep, except Logan, but Kitty had stopped watching him a long time ago. There was nothing she could do for him. That's why she was surprised when she heard a gruff voice from across the room say,

"Don't cry, Pun'kin. Cryin' never helped nobody, and it ain't gonna help 'Ro or any of 'em now. They're dead. The best thing we can do," the voice was almost a growl, "Is turn their death inta somthin' productive. The best thing we can do is _get angry_."

**Part XX**

_Sanity sweet Sanity_

Logan had heard the meeting from far away, from another place. He'd heard what everyone said, but he didn't process it until he'd hauled himself out of the abyss.

When he did comprehend what the Elf had told the rest of the X-Men, it lit a fire in his soul. He wanted to rip, to tear into the people who'd killed 'Ro, who'd tortured him and Bishop. Those bastards needed to be purged from the face of the planet. And Wolverine was the only one who could do it.

* * *

(1) _The Prince_- Niccolo Machiavelli's most famous work


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: So last chapter you met the promised sociopath, Mr. Lancaster. Lots more of him here. If you hate him, (which you're supposed to) don't fret; next chapter you get to meet a nice person! Yay!

Again, reviews are appreciated; you have my eternal gratitude for reading; I hope you like it!

-Elle

* * *

**Part XXI**

_Replacement_

The new head technician stood iron-rod straight, holding his right arm in his left hand. _It'll be alright,_ he told himself; _just tell him what you're here for._

"M-Mr. Lancaster, S-Sir?" he said timidly, "I-I'm the new t-technician you r-requested. S-Someone s-said-"

"Don't stutter." Said Dameon quietly, "It makes you sound weak. You must never show weakness. Do you understand?"

The tech swallowed hard, and mastered himself, "Yes, sir. I understand, sir."

"Good." Dameon turned around, and smiled pleasantly, "Now, what can I do for you?" The technician relaxed; maybe Mr. Lancaster wasn't as scary as everyone said he was. A little eccentric, certainly, but he could deal with that.

"I was told to come here," he replied, "someone said you wanted to see me about installing some cameras?"

"Yes," Dameon answered, his tone friendly, "do you think it would be possible to get some cameras installed in cell block A tonight?"

"Well…" said the tech. Dameon's eyes flashed dangerously. "Yes," he finished quickly, "Yes, I think that would be possible."

"Good," his eyes were pleasant once more, "Excellent. Now," he continued, "when you go in there, make sure you're very quiet. Be careful not to wake anyone up. The prisoners in that block are very dangerous."

The tech nodded and turned to leave the room.

"And," Dameon called out, "When you're finished, go to the salary office. They have instructions to pay you and your crew an extra nine hundred thousand dollars each for your services."

"Thank you, sir!" the tech exclaimed, astonished, "Thank you very much!"

"You're very welcome, young man. All I ask is that whatever you see tonight stays out of the news, okay? We're only trying to protect the good citizens of America, but some people might not understand that what we do is necessary. It would be better for everyone involved if you and the others didn't say anything, all right?"

The technician nodded, relieved it wasn't anything else. He left the room. Dameon faced the wall of screens, and turned up the volume. The choir sang for him. He smiled. "'From this arises the question as to whether it is better to be loved than to be feared, or the opposite. I reply that the prince should be both.'(1)" He whispered.

**Part XXII**

_Candid Camera_

Wolverine was sleeping when they came in. The door only made the slightest sound as it open, the shoes only the faintest whisper on the floor. The room was picth dark, so there was nothing to see. He woke up anyway.

He could smell them. There were…three? No, four. This damn inhibitor collar was making it hard to sense anything. He heard their every move. His eyes opened an infinitesimally small amount. It was enough. He watched them move about. What was it they were putting up? Cameras. Good. That meant the place hadn't been bugged yesterday or today. That was important. But it also meant they had a problem. A problem the Elf would need to be warned about.

He waited until they left, then another twenty minutes; too make sure they weren't coming back. That was all he could afford.

He could only count on it taking them about half an hour to connect the feed to wherever this was going. He needed to talk to 'Crawler.

"Elf," he called down the hallway to his left, "Wake up. We got a problem."

"Was ist?" came a bleary voice from the same direction, "What is it, Logan?"

"They've just been in here and bugged this place. It's full of cameras now. We got 'bout five minutes till they get the things running. If that."

"X-Men," called 'Crawler loudly, "Achtung!" He was fully awake now. His body had been pumped full of adrenaline more times in the past two days than should happen to anyone in a lifetime.

There were some groans from the rest of the X-Men as they woke up. Logan hoped they were listening, because the Elf was talking a mile a minute.

"Someone just had cameras put in here. Whoever they are, it is vital they do not know what we plan to do. From now on, only say things which have no tactical significance, or do not talk at all. We'll find another way to communicate. Only use our codenames in conversation. If these people don't already know who we are, we do not want to give them another advantage. Verstehen?"

There was a general consensus. Everyone was awake now, but they lay back down on their cots and pretended to sleep. They didn't want whoever was watching them now to know anything had happened.

**Part XXIII**

_Control_

Dameon sat down in front of the panels and the screens, and watched the ones in the upper left corner come to life. He smiled. He was in control again. He was once more lord and master of his realm.

His cell phone rang. He took it out of his pocket and looked at the caller I.D. He flipped it open and said,

"Good evening, Mr. President. How may I help you? Yes. No. I know you're not sure about expanding the sentinels, but it's all for the good of the people. Other countries can't object if we take them over, sir. Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. You're right sir that was out of line. I apologize. It won't happen again. Of course their being treated humanely, sir. Those are just rumors. Alright, sir, you have a nice evening. Thank you, sir. Goodnight."

He closed the phone with a snap. The president was so stupid. He didn't even know what Dameon was doing here; he had no idea what was happening right under his nose. He had gone right along with Dameon's "all for the public good" bit, and had basically given him free reign. His mistake.

Dameon congratulated himself. He really couldn't have chosen a better target. Mutants were nationally hated and feared anyway; all he had had to do was play off of that fear. It had been so easy. And now he got to sit back and enjoy the fruits of his labor. He turned the volume up higher. It was beautiful.

* * *

_(1) A quotation from __The Prince_, by Niccolo Machiavelli


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: So here's OC number two; Ammon. Just so you know, the ONLY reason I chose Ammon is because it means hidden. He's a good guy; I hope you like him better than Dameon. =D

Thank you for the review, BamfIsAwesome! I don't know if there's going to be much time to work with Kurt and Logan's friendship, but I do have a few things planned. Thanks for the information about the crucifixes; I changed it. =D

Gracias for reading, I hope you're enjoying yourself!

-Elle

* * *

**Part XXIV**

_Robin Hood_

Ammon hurried out of the kitchen carrying the tray with the steaming hot salmon on it. He didn't have much time; he had to get this to Mr. Lancaster in the next five minutes, or he would start getting suspicious. He looked around quickly and ducked into a closet, shutting the door behind him. He pulled out the vial he had found in his factory. There had been a note explaining what it was, and telling him he had an obligation. To use this to help people who needed it. To not waste his gifts. He had been terrified.

Ammon was a mutant. But he was a _free_ mutant. Probably the only free mutant left in America. The only reason he was free was because of his mutant power, and the only reason he was hunted was because he was a mutant. He almost laughed at the irony.

Ammon's power was the ability to hide the X-gene. He could make it look like you weren't a mutant to any machine, any person. It was a very specific type of illusionary power. He hadn't even really known about it until the sentinels had come for him; it had been a few months ago; earlier than for everyone else; he was supposed to be a test subject. He wasn't very powerful. But they couldn't catch him. They'd chased him all over the city, until he'd accidently activated his power, causing them to view him as a normal human. But his parents had known.

They'd been hysterical. His own father had kicked him out of the house, saying he didn't want a freak living with them. His own father had told him to his face that he didn't have a son. That was when he'd renamed himself. His parents didn't want him? Fine. Good riddance. He didn't want them, either.

Ammon had been on the streets ever since; the sentinels never found him. Because once he learned he had the damned thing, he figured he might as well use it. He taught himself to control his power.

He lived in an abandoned factory, isolating himself, keeping to the outskirts of the city. He learned to steal. He depended on nobody.

The vial had scared him half out of his head because it meant that someone else _knew._ Someone else knew he was a mutant, and that meant they could give him away. He hid for four days after that. But no sentinels came, and eventually, he'd ventured out. He'd ventured out into a world that had changed dramatically in the space of two of the four days. Where all of the mutants had been rounded up and thrown into these camps. And Ammon had known what he had to do.

He had to help them. He hadn't known how, exactly, but he'd known that he had to. So he had applied to be a guard at camp 00789.

It had been easy to get the job, really. The only requirement was that you weren't a mutant. And Ammon didn't look like a mutant to any of the machines. He was in.

And now he'd found someone who needed his help. He'd seen him on the screen yesterday. He'd looked awful. Today was the third day of the captivity, and he just kept getting worse. All those open wounds had gotten him sick. Ammon had known they would. That's why, last night, he'd stolen some medical supplies from a hospital and brought them with him to work today. That's why he'd brought the vial, and that's why he was now drugging Dameon Lancaster's food.

He knew that Lancaster would never think that he could be drugged. He was too arrogant, too vain; he thought he was so much smarter than everyone else that no one could touch him. Ammon was about to prove him wrong.

The drug wouldn't kill him; just knock him out for a while, so that Ammon could get into Cell Block A without him seeing. Dameon only rewound tapes where people screamed, so he wouldn't see Ammon later, and nobody else was ever allowed to watch the screens because Dameon thought they were all incompetent. Everyone would just think Mr. Lancaster had fallen asleep at the controls again, which he did often.

He put a liberal amount of the vial's contents on the salmon, and then hurried off to Dameon's observatory.

"Here you are, sir." He said nervously. Dameon smiled at him and said,

"Thank you, my boy. That will be all."

Ammon smiled and nodded as he backed out of the room, but inside he was screaming "I am NOT your boy, you sadistic freak! I hope you rot in Hell!"

He waited in a nearby closet for ten minutes, and then peered into the observatory. Dameon was out cold. Ammon allowed himself a brief, triumphant, smile, and then hurried off in the direction of Cell Block A.

When he got there, it was dead silent. He moved quickly past the cells with the others in them. The blue one was at the end of the hall. The rest of them looked daggers at him as he moved by their cells. Such obvious dislike made him uncomfortable. He wanted to tell them he was a friend, but he couldn't risk someone hearing him. When he got to the last cell, he typed in the combination with shaking hands, and stepped inside.

The blue guy was lying on his side on the cot, shivering and muttering as he slept. Ammon worked quickly, binding the wounds that were hidden by the jumpsuit. He didn't dare do the exposed ones, in case someone saw, but he cleaned them with disinfectant, and stitched up the worst ones. He gave the man some antibiotics. He was calm and efficient- Ammon had been a med school student before he'd discovered his power.

When he was finished, he carefully placed a rolled up piece of paper and a tiny pencil in the man's three fingered hand, and left the cell, reactivating the field behind him.

The girl in the cell across from the blue man was looking at him with curiosity rather than hatred now. She moved to the front of the cell and beckoned for him to come to her. He hesitated, but then she gestured impatiently, as if to say _Oh, c'mon, really, what am I gonna do?_ And he came forward.

"Thank you." She said, her voice so soft he had to strain to hear her, "His name's Kurt Wagner. If he was awake, he'd say thanks, too. I'm sure he'd want to know who saved him. What's your name? I'm Kitty Pryde."

He smiled. "I'm Ammon. And don't mention it. He seemed like he needed help. Look," his tone was apologetic, "I'd love to stay, but I gotta go. I drugged my boss so he wouldn't see me, but I'm not sure how long he'll be out, so…" She nodded, and looked at him once more in gratitude. He left the hall quickly.

Ammon was cheerful the rest of the day. He felt like a hero. Well, not really. But his presence had made a difference to somebody, and somehow, that made everything he'd been through seem worthwhile.

**Part XXV**

_Primum non nocere_

Kurt woke up feeling like someone had used his skull as a pincushion. He sat up slowly, shading his eyes against the harsh fluorescent lighting. As he did, something fell out of his hand and rolled under the bed. He didn't know what it was, but he was sure it hadn't been there when he had gone to sleep. Curious, he pursued it under the cot. It was a pencil. His hand closed around it, and he was about to go back when he stopped. He looked out from under the bed at the spot where the camera was. He'd seen it yesterday…or wait, was that the day before? He couldn't remember. Why couldn't he remember? Had something happened? He shook his head impatiently, making his skull ache even more. Thoughts for another time.

He spotted the camera at the end of the hall. There was one on the half-wall divided each pair of cells, too, but if he was right…

He pictured it. Each one could turn about sixty degrees left and right, and there were two on opposing sides. He was fairly sure that that meant that the way the bed was positioned, the person watching them could not see him when he was under it. Well, he was just going to have to hope he was right, because the pencil had a note wrapped tightly around it, and he wanted to read it. He and unwrapped the note carefully. In cramped handwriting it said,

My name is Ammon. I'm a mutant. I hide other mutants. I can make them look human. I want to help you. I'm posing as a guard here. When I come to take away your leftover food tonight, slip this note back to me. Write on the back. Tell me if you want my help or not. –A

Kurt grabbed the pencil, turned the paper over and wrote quickly,

Danke, Ammon. Yes, we would very much like your help. What can you do? -

He hesitated. He didn't know this person. How far could they trust him? Then again, Ammon had obviously helped him; Kurt remembered feeling sick yesterday…maybe it had gotten worse? He couldn't remember. His hand was poised over the note. Then he came to a decision and signed it

Kurt Wagner

This person needed to know he could trust them. Before he rolled the note up again he paused; he'd almost forgotten;

P.S. Thank you very much for helping me, Ammon. May the Lord bless you.

When the guard came to remove the trays of food that night, Kurt looked him over, trying to see something that would tell him if this was who he was looking for, give him some sign that this was the man who had left the note. He found it in the words scribbled on the back of the man's right hand:

First, do no harm.

**Part XXVI**

_How may I help you?_

Ammon took the tray without looking at Kurt Wagner, and then did the same for the others. He moved quickly out of the hall, and then ducked into a closet right outside it. He searched Kurt's tray, and found what he was looking for under a brown banana peel. He read the note in record time. And then he sat there and marveled at his own stupidity. He was supposed to be intelligent, wasn't he; a med student. And he couldn't answer Kurt's question.

What could he do to help? He didn't know. He didn't have a plan. He'd just come here thinking that someone else would have one. What an idiot he'd been. They were in prison, how were they supposed to come up with a plan with Dameon Lancaster watching them?

He wasn't sure what to say, but he had to figure it out quickly, because he needed to bring Dameon his dinner in ten minutes, and he couldn't be late. He fumbled with the pencil and stared at the new scrap of paper he'd brought with him. He was dumbfounded for another two minutes, and then, suddenly, he knew the words;

Tell me what you need, and I will do everything in my power to make sure that you get it. –A

P.S. You're welcome.

**Part XXVII**

_Pandora's Box_

Kurt crawled under the bed and unrolled Ammon's latest correspondence. After reading it, he smiled; this kid must be a telepath; he knew exactly what Kurt wanted to hear. He considered how to reply; he needed a lot of things. Information, a way to communicate without anyone watching, allies on the outside, some way to protect the other mutants while he worked on the escape; and that was just the tip of the iceberg. He considered the options; he needed to decide what was the most urgent, what had to be taken care of right away.

Memories, unbidden, crept into his thoughts. Being dragged through the hallways, and seeing the eyes of the other mutants staring back at him. They had been so lifeless, so despairing. He had wanted to help them so much…wait. Maybe he could. Not in the physical sense; they still couldn't attempt an escape. What those people needed more than anything else was hope. Right now, there was nothing, no light at the end of the tunnel, no escape from the nightmare. As far as they knew, they would probably die here, in pain. He needed to give them something to hold on to, so they wouldn't give up; he needed to throw them a lifeline.

He grabbed the pencil and began scribbling on the paper;

Ammon,

Would it be possible to get this message to all of the mutants here?

Do not lose hope. The X-Men are here with you; we are working on getting everyone out of this place. Be ready to leave; you will receive another communication when the time comes. Keep the faith.

-KW, Nightcrawler

I know it will be difficult, but I have seen the other prisoners; they have no hope left. We need to give them some. Danke, Ammon.

-Kurt Wagner

P.S. I need to communicate with the rest of my team. Can you help with that as well?

The letter didn't say everything that he wanted it to say, but it would be enough for now; enough to keep them going, to give them strength. They could all use some of that right now.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: Now you meet the third OC; sweet little Isolde. I know there isn't much action going on right now, but bear with me. This is just a lull, to sort of set things up.

Danke for reading; I hope you're still finding it interesting!

-Elle

* * *

**Part XXVIII**

_Declawed _

There was something wrong.

He kept staring at the air in front of his clenched fists, willing them to be there, to appear with that distinctive "SNIKT" sound. How the hell was this possible? How could his flamin' claws _not be there?_

It was maddening. It was like they were gone, like they'd just disappeared. Which couldn't happen. Even if these sickos had managed to remove the adamantium from his skeleton, his claws were made of bone. They were part of his skeletal structure, damn it, they couldn't be gone.

And yet, they weren't appearing. And the X-Men needed him. He thought he might be able to break them out of here if someone came to take him again. This time they wouldn't have the advantage of him being unconscious, and if he had to, he would kill them. He knew what the Elf had said, but sometimes you just had to do what needed to be done. Whatever it took, he would get them out of here, before something like what they'd done to him happened to the others. He wouldn't allow that.

He knew what they'd done to the Elf in that room. He knew what they'd done to 'Ro, and he knew what they were still doing to Bishop. And he wanted blood for it. He was prepared to exact the toll. Whatever it took.

This whole thing with his claws certainly wasn't helping, though, and the fact that his healing factor was significantly reduced. He would have to rely on his training as a samurai to win this one. Be fast and deadly. Whatever it took, they weren't staying here.

**Part XXIX**

_The stuff of miracles_

Ammon chewed his bottom lip as he looked at the note. _Every_ mutant in the whole place? Every single one? There were a hundred five in the compound, and at least another two hundred on the grounds. This was going to be hard.

He hastily penned a reply;

The communication thing is easy. Just tell me what you want to say. As for your other request, I'm on it. Give me 48 hrs. –A

He checked his watch. His lunch break was in half an hour. It was about an hour long. That would give him just enough time to get to the apartment buildings around here and rent a place.

One man and three hundred pieces of paper in a factory just weren't going to cut it. Ammon needed a place to stay where he could organize things; where he could mass-produce Kurt's letter. Besides, he had enough money now; Dameon paid very well for his employee's silence.

When the lunch bell rang he left the compound and went to one of the few apartment complexes in walking distance of the prison. There weren't many around; people didn't like living near death. It made it harder to ignore.

The complex was falling apart; the windows wouldn't open, the hot water in the shower was broken, and the microwave only worked on one side. The kind of people who lived here wouldn't ask questions. It was perfect.

None of the other guards lived anywhere near where they worked, so Ammon didn't have to worry about anyone informing Dameon about suspicious behavior. He bought a computer that night after he left the prison, as well as a printer, paper, and ink cartridges. He typed up Kurt's note and printed out three hundred of them, then cut the paper up into little individual messages. Everything was ready; he'd already decided that the best way to get the letters out was to put the notes in with the food trays. No one would look there except for the mutants.

The next day he carefully executed his plan, slipping the notes inside the tinfoil with the sandwiches. His hands were shaking; he was so nervous. If they caught him, it was all over; they'd find out he was a mutant and lock him up, too. But that didn't happen. The plan went off surprisingly smoothly.

Ammon moved around as much of the compound as possible that day, trying to gauge reactions. It seemed to give some people new hope. There was a performer Ammon had seen in the newspaper once- what had they called her? The Dazzler? - Who seemed to be given new life by the news that the X-Men were here.

There were other reactions as well. He saw some people sneering, but he wasn't surprised. The ones who did all belonged to the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants; most likely they thought the X-Men wouldn't be able to pull it off.

Some reactions scared him. A few people got this look in their eyes…like zombies or something. They looked…not quite alive somehow, as if the only reason they didn't just give up and die was hatred, the desire for revenge. That was how the silver-haired man looked. Ammon couldn't really blame him; he'd lost everything; his freedom, his father, his twin. They'd killed her in that room in the back; he'd kept calling her name and questioning anyone who'd walked by about her for days, until someone had gotten tired of it and told him she was dead. Then he'd just stared at the wall, as if in a trance. Now he looked coldly alert, as if his life was dedicated to getting out of this place and killing the person who'd murdered his twin.

Everyone reacted differently; sure, there were general categories, but each one had something unique about it. The only thing he saw in every person was hope. No matter how little, no matter how fleeting, it was always there. It whispered in the corners of the cells, sang in the hallways, and made the compound seem a little less cold somehow.

Kurt and Ammon had given something special. They had given the greatest and most difficult gift to give; the thing that turns death to life, sadness to joy, and despair to hope. It was the stuff of miracles.

**Part XXX**

_Guardian Angel_

Isolde Adler huddled next to the other children and ate. She clutched a tiny piece of paper in her dirty right hand. It was from her guardian angel.

She had stopped trying to talk to the other children kept in this small, dark room. They couldn't understand what she was saying, so it was pointless. Now she just sat quietly and tried to understand what they talked about to each other. Isolde missed talking. She was surrounded by people, but she still felt alone.

Her family had only been here a month when it had started. She hadn't understood what was going on; her mutter and vater had been scared, they'd hidden her down in their new basement. But the metal men had come anyway. They had taken her, and they had killed her parents. It had been the worst day of Isolde's short life. She had cried all night; she had felt so lost, so alone. The other children had tried to make her feel better, but they couldn't understand when she tried to tell them what was wrong. So she'd cried by herself.

She didn't understand what was happening. This was supposed to be America. Her parents had told her there would be new opportunities for them here, opportunities that they couldn't have in Europe. She wasn't sure what that meant exactly, but she was sure this wasn't it.

They'd been here a long time now. Some men in black uniforms had come to give them food when they got hungry. It was always the same, and it tasted yucky. But today there had been a surprise in it. There had been a piece of paper, with writing on it. Isolde couldn't read it; it was in another language, and besides, she was only six, but she knew it was special. The older children had seemed excited about it; they had whispered to the younger ones, but they'd done it very quietly. Isolde thought it might be a secret. She knew about secrets. You weren't supposed to talk about them. She knew the others wouldn't understand if she did say anything, but the metal men might be listening, or those people in the black suits. They might be able to speak deutsch, and Isolde didn't want them to know the secret. They were the bad guys.

Isolde didn't know who the piece of paper with the writing on it was from, but she thought it must be a good person. They must want to help, or the other children wouldn't be so excited. Isolde had decided it must be someone who was watching out for her and the others. Her parents had taught her that the person who would always watch over her (besides them) was her guardian angel. She concluded, with the wonderful innocence of a child, that the note must be from him.

The lights went out, and the littlest ones, the ones still afraid of the dark, screamed, like always. Isolde just sat quietly. After all of the other children had fallen asleep she whispered softly in German, "Please, Engel, wherever you are, help us."

**Part XXXI**

_Stalker_

Dameon Lancaster needed a fix. Badly. He hadn't killed anyone in ages; he needed to feel the blood between his fingers, watch the life leave someone's eyes; hear a fresh, real scream, full of real terror.

His favorite way to do it was to choose them first. To pick one out and follow them around, get to know them. To learn every nuance of their behavior. He would watch them for weeks. Then he'd follow them home. He'd wait for them. And then they would die.

He never killed the same way twice. He liked to hear them scream, so it was always torture, but he didn't leave a signature besides that. There was no specific modus operandi with Dameon; sometimes he strangled them, sometimes he shot them, sometimes he slit their throats. Whatever he felt like that day.

He couldn't kill as much anymore; it was one of the disadvantages of being in the public eye; there was hardly any privacy. He'd only killed ten people in the last year and a half, and none of them had caused a stir. In fact, no one had even known they were missing; they had all been homeless people, runaways, and drug addicts. He'd disposed of the bodies very well. There had never been any evidence that a crime was even committed. There never would be.

He needed to kill someone now, but he didn't have time to stalk them. He needed their blood. He wanted it. He looked at his list of phone numbers. Who would it be tonight? The pizza boy? The private masseuse? They were just a list to him. Just phone numbers. He called one in. They would be at his private penthouse in upstate New York in about an hour. That was good. That meant he had time for his new projects.

His new toy was almost done. He couldn't wait to try it out on Bishop. The black man still hadn't screamed, and it was really starting to get irksome. WASP LEG would make him scream. It twisted memories to Dameon's specifications; he could make it drive anyone insane using nothing but their own inner demons. It could give people new memories as well, and amplify negative emotions. It was nearly finished. It just needed a few more modifications.

He looked at the folder sitting on the panel in front of him. This stack of papers would bring him more pleasure than even WASP LEG could. It was information on a very special someone from Kurt Wagner's past. One Jimaine Szardos, aka Amanda Sefton.

Dameon had been unable to find a satisfactory answer to why Kurt prayed for the souls of his torturers. It had been a constant source of annoyance to him. So he'd decided to make Kurt his special project.

What he wouldn't let himself acknowledge was the real reason he went after Kurt. It was because the Nightcrawler was content with who he was; he was able to forgive others their prejudices, and see beyond first reactions. He was just a more open, loving, person than Dameon was. Could ever be. He was _better_. Dameon couldn't stand that. Kurt must be eliminated.

He'd done extensive research on Kurt's past, and found someone who the man really cared about, and who wasn't currently deceased. She was his next prey.

Dameon had gotten it in his head to make the blue mutant suffer. He just needed it. He coveted the scream of the furry X-Men more than any other. And he'd decided the best way to accomplish that was to drive Nightcrawler crazy.

He had a detailed, meticulous plan for how to accomplish his goal. Phase one would soon commence. Meanwhile, Dameon was going to start phase two, and the whole thing would come together in phase three.

He looked down at the picture of Amanda. She really was very pretty, and by the sound of it, a good person as well. She would be a delight to hunt, and the kill would be very sweet. He smiled _Look out, Kurt Wagner_, he thought, _ready or not, here I come._


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: Okay, so more of the adorableness of Isolde this chapter, and Dameon being evil. Thanks for the second review, BamfIsAwesome! Hope everyone likes this chapter! Please review.

Thanks for reading!

-Elle

* * *

**Part XXXII**

_Power and Responsibility_

Kurt was going through the exercise routine that he'd made up to suit this tiny cell; it was hard to perform any of his daring acrobatic feats, but Kurt still had to stay in shape. He needed to be ready to fight if- when- they got out of this place.

As he moved fluidly through the workout, his mind buzzed with the X-Men's many problems. Chief amongst his concerns was how they were going to get out of here. Their escape had to meet with some very specific criteria.

First of all, they had to get everyone out simultaneously, and without alerting the outside world. If the populace found out about the escape, there would be unnecessary panic, and inevitably more violence against mutants. It was also conceivable that the government might decide that keeping the rest of the captured mutants around was too great of a risk, and kill them all. Kurt couldn't gamble with the lives of so many like that. He didn't have the right.

Next there was the matter of the human's safety. Even after everything they had done, it was his job as an X-Man to think about their wellbeing. They had to ensure that however the mutants escaped, it did not seriously injure any of the Homo sapiens present.

He made a mental note to talk to Ammon about that; he knew for a fact that some of the less scrupulous members of homo superior were being housed here as well, and that when they got out, they would want vengeance. He needed to make it clear that that was not an option.

Then there was the issue of Bishop. Kurt still had no idea where he was, and he was not going to give up on him if there was the slightest chance that Lucas was still alive. He was reluctant to take the risk of beginning the operation without Bishop; it was conceivable that they would kill him out of spite when the prisoners broke loose. Kurt wanted to wait as long as possible for the return of the energy-wielding X-Man.

Some people had a problem with this. Alex thought that Bishop was probably dead, and wanted to leave immediately. He and Kurt had been arguing nonverbally (and painfully slowly) for the last four days about the best course of action. Kurt had to admit that Alex had some valid points, but he was also trying to rush into this half-cocked, and they couldn't afford to slip up or make mistakes. The odds were stacked against them.

It wasn't his fault; the X-Men had never exactly been big on planning. Things just sort of _happened_, and they would react. They didn't usually have the time to think anything through, but this was a different situation. Of course there was pressure to get out as quickly as possible; people needed them, and they couldn't help anyone in here, but it was also important that since they had the time, they make sure that everything was well thought out. That nobody had to get hurt who didn't need to be.

Kurt was so preoccupied that he never heard them coming. Nobody said anything because of his explicit instructions not to anger the guards. And so it was with great surprise that he found himself sinking into oblivion as a tranquilizer dart pierced his skin.

**Part XXXIII**

_Fear_

Kitty watched helplessly as they dragged Kurt away. She wanted to scream after them, to demand they bring him back, to goad them into taking her instead. But she had given her word.

Damn, Kurt, damn him! He didn't know what was good for him! Why did he always have to be the brave one? Couldn't someone else be the hero for once?

She was angry; angry at him for making her promise not to help, angry at those monsters for taking him again. She felt like smashing something, punching someone, attacking . She wished she had something to _fight_.

What she didn't admit to herself was that she was scared. She was scared that this time they wouldn't bring Kurt back, that she would never see him again. That he would just be…gone, like Ororo and probably Bishop were. She didn't want to think about it, to even recognize the possibility. So she stayed angry.

**Part XXXIV**

_Innocent Eyes_

When Kurt was rudely awakened by 100 volts of electricity running through his body, he was back in the torture chamber. He was confused, disoriented; why had they brought him here again? What did they want? He almost screamed when they shocked him a second time, but he bit his lip to stop himself, drawing blood with his fangs. He soon discovered that was the least of his problems.

Kurt's questions were answered almost immediately. They wanted information. It was just the same question phrased numerous different ways at first. Where did they go? Where _exactly_ did they go? Where did Xavier take them? Where did the planes land? Where…? Every time he failed to answer there was more pain.

After that they started asking new questions. Questions about how the X-Men worked, how the X-Jet operated, about the Professor, classified information, about his past. He had a feeling that they already knew the answers to most of what they asked; they were just trying to break him; get him to give them less important facts, to loosen his tongue.

It just went on and on and on. It was worse than the first time; all of Kurt's recently healed injuries were reopened. Ammon's careful ministrations amounted to nothing in the face of another round of torture. Every blow was twice as painful as when it had been inflicted before.

By the time they were finished, he probably couldn't have answered a question if he'd wanted to. His throat was dry and swollen, and his thoughts were barely coherent. It was from all of the pain; the drugs they'd injected him with after they'd finally concluded he wasn't going to answer their questions. The world was swimming in front of him, impossible things were happening before his very eyes.

He hardly registered them unchaining him from the bed frame and dragging him along as they left the room. He vaguely, as if through a fog, observed the blood on everything as they towed him forward…his blood. It covered the whips, the needles, the knives, was smeared on the walls. The instruments were moving, dancing with each other, waltzing. And now they suddenly turned on each other, attacking, maiming, killing…

He noticed that they didn't take him back to his cell. They went the wrong way, shoved him through another door into a dark room with low ceilings. It was cold, and the air smelled stale, as if it was just sent through a filtration system and shoved back in the place. He stayed on the ground, breathing shallowly, trying not to move, so as not to make it worse. He lay there for a long time. The walls rippled. Time slowed to a crawl, and then sped back up. He saw the sound of the air coming out of the vents, and heard the color of the walls. It was terrifying; his heart pounded, he wanted to run, to hide, but he was too weak to move. People talked in unintelligible, loud voices, loomed over him menacingly. For a while, he couldn't remember who he was. But it didn't matter did it? Because he wasn't really anything; he was at once everything and nothing, a part of the whole and nonexistent.

After a while, everything slowly began to return to normal. There were no great shapes standing around him. He saw color and heard sound, not the other way around. When he was finally lucid once more, he was acutely aware that everything _hurt. _His whole body felt like it was on fire. And he had never been so _tired_. He just wanted to sleep. He wondered if he was dying. But, no, it hurt too much for him to be dying; He was pretty sure the pain would be fading if that was the case.

Before he passed into sweet unconsciousness, he saw frightened eyes in the darkness; eyes that were at once as innocent as a newborn and had seen too much; the beautiful green eyes of the little girl known as Isolde Adler.

**Part XXXV**

_Different_

They had come that morning; the men in the black suits with the loud voices had taken them out of the little black room. They had been yelling and shoving, and all of the children had been terrified. The littlest ones were crying.

They had gone to a huge white room with high ceilings and bright lights. It was very cold, and the children were told to sit on benches at the end of one of the walls. They all huddled together in a clump, nervously awaiting their fate.

A man came in. He sent all of the guards out. He was tall, with blond hair and blue eyes; he looked like Isolde's daddy. But he didn't remind her of him. Her daddy was always smiling in a way that said he loved her; when this man smiled, he looked like the Big Bad Wolf before he blew a house down. He had a stack of papers in his hand, and he kept checking them as he looked the children over. He got to Isolde last, and when he did he smiled at her. It scared her. It was like she was a toy he wanted or something. He grabbed her by the arm and towed her from the room. He shut the door. All of the other children were looking in their direction, wondering what was going on. Isolde tried to get away from the man, but he held on tighter, bruising her arm. She stopped struggling.

The man smiled his terrible smile at her again, and then pressed a button next to the door. There was a glass pane in it, and Isolde and the man could see inside, but the children could not see out. When the man hit the button, some white stuff came out of the walls. Most of the children ran to the middle of the room, but one of them tripped.

It was awful. Isolde watched as the child suffocated. She looked so scared. Isolde had heard the other children calling her Katy. Now Katy was dead.

Isolde screamed, and tried to get away again. She didn't want the other children to die; they had tried to be nice to her, they didn't deserve it any more than her mutter and vater had. She just wanted the man to go away, this whole thing to stop, stop, stop, stop….

Suddenly, the walls in the room stopped spewing the white stuff. The children, who had been screaming, fell quiet, confused. The floor sucked up all of the gas. Everyone in the room stood in the center, in a circle, unsure of what was going on. The man frowned.

He pressed some buttons again. Nothing happened. He grabbed something from his belt and talked into it in English. Then he pulled her along a corridor and threw her into another small, dark, room. She let him. She was too preoccupied with keeping the others alive.

Isolde could control machines. She told them what to do, and they listened to her. When she had gotten upset outside the room, her power had activated of its own accord, giving her what she wanted. After she realized what was happening, she concentrated, keeping the machines from turning back on. It was hard, but it wasn't her first time, so she had a measure of control.

Last summer she had been trapped in the basement after following her toy ball down the stairs. It had been dark, and the babysitter hadn't heard her screaming and crying. She was so scared; it was worse because of the darkness; she was afraid of the dark. She had wanted so badly for it to be light. Her head had started to ache, and then, suddenly, the lights, which had never worked, came on. She discovered that if she tried really hard she could keep them on, but if she stopped thinking about it, they went out again. She spent half the day down there, until her frantic parents burst in. They were so relieved to find her that they didn't notice the lights were working.

She sat quietly in the corner and concentrated on keeping the room broken. She didn't even notice when they threw somebody else in with her. She had never tried to use her power for so long before. It made her really sleepy. But she was determined to keep going, and she made the room stop until the camera machines told her that the people left. Then she stopped concentrating, and the room was back to normal. No one was there to figure that out, however, so everyone was still safe. She fell asleep for a few hours, and when she woke up she finally noticed the figure lying on the ground in front of her. She got up and walked towards him. She was curious, but sort of afraid, also. She had never seen anyone who looked like him.

He was obviously hurt. There was blood all over the place, and he smelled yucky, like the one time her daddy had burned a turkey. Isolde was afraid that maybe he was dead. But no, he was breathing, she could see him. She got used to his appearance pretty quickly; he was different, like her. That's why he was here.

After a while she got tired again. It was really cold in the room, and she didn't want to go back to the corner all by herself. There was a shirt that someone had thrown in the room laying on the floor. Isolde picked it up and carefully draped it over him; she wasn't afraid to touch him, only the congealed blood throughout his fur. She slowly curled up next to him, and snuggled up against him. He was warm, even through the coarse fabric. Isolde pulled his arm over her, holding on to his strangely shaped hand. He didn't move away, so Isolde fell asleep next to his chest with his arm resting on top of her. She smiled as she dreamt; she felt safe. God had sent her an angel.


	10. Chapter 10

**Part XXXVI**

_Angels and Princesses _

When Kurt woke up there was a little girl sleeping next to him. She was painfully thin, and was wearing the same style of jumpsuit that he was. She looked to be about six. He carefully moved away from her and stood up, looking around the small room for a way out.

Everything was black, and it was made to seem darker because of the dim lighting. There were vents on the ceiling, but when he tried to pry them open he got an electric shock for his troubles. There was a door out, but it would only open with the proper code, and there was almost no crack between it and the wall. There were no other exits.

After he had determined that there was no way out of the room, he looked himself over. Nothing serious; again, they seemed to want him alive. He was fairly sure the wounds would become infected once more if they weren't treated, though. He would need to talk to Ammon about that.

He heard a noise from the middle of the room and instantly tensed, ready for battle. He relaxed when he realized that it was just the little girl, waking up. Her brilliant green eyes looked at him with curiosity. She hesitated, like she wasn't sure if she should talk to him, then she asked, in German, "Did they hurt you?"

"Ja. Are you alright, child?" he replied in the same language.

"Yes." She said, looking at the floor, then, "No. I'm scared."

"I know it's scary here, little one, but you have to be brave. Can you do that?" she looked up at him and nodded. He continued, "My name is Kurt. What's yours?"

"Isolde. Isolde Adler. You speak German," the last sentence sounded surprised.

" Ja. 'Isolde', that's a pretty name. Are you named after the princess Isolde?" he inquired, half smiling.

"Ja, that's what my Mutter told me. She said I was too little to hear her story, though, but I'm not. I'm _six_."

He laughed, "Well, I'm sure she had her reasons, princess," he said, "Parents always do." He frowned slightly. Where were her parents right now? Surely they didn't let them take her? "Where are your parents, Isolde?"

The little girl looked down. Her voice quavered as she whispered, "The metal men killed them when they came to take me away." She wiped her eyes on a dirty sleeve.

Kurt moved over next to her and crouched down until he was her height. "I'm sorry," he said softly, "I'm very, very sorry, Isolde."

She looked up at him, green eyes glittering with tears. "Did you-" she began hesitantly, "did you write this note?" She opened her hand and dropped a crumpled, dirty piece of paper into his hand. He looked at it.

"Yes," he answered, "I did. Do you know what it says?"

"No," she replied, "but I don't have to. You're my angel, aren't you? My guardian angel. You look out for me. Just like my parents said." She moved forward and hugged him tightly, "I don't have to miss them, because as long as you're here, they'll be here. And you'll always be here, right?"

He looked down at the little girl with the eyes that were half pleading half hopeful and said, "Right."

**Part XXXVII**

_Options_

Kurt hoped he could get to a church soon. He had a lot to confess.

He knew he shouldn't have told the girl he was an angel. But what did you say when a six year old girl who was orphaned, lost, and alone talked to you like that? There wasn't really another answer. He was her last hope. He couldn't take that away from her.

They spent another day in the room. Someone came to the door with food at one point. Kurt might have escaped, but he did not want to risk Isolde getting punished if he couldn't get them out of here. He was convinced that whoever ran this facility had little or no concept of morality. He didn't think hurting children would be a problem for them.

Isolde fell asleep again after a while. But the announcement woke her up.

A cold voice came out of hidden speakers. It sounded perversely amused.

"Good evening, Mr. Wagner," it said, "I trust you are enjoying your stay?"

"Who are you?" Kurt asked angrily. "What do you want? Why are you keeping us here?"

"Us. Good. I see you've taken a liking to the little brat. Listen closely," the voice still sounded like it was having fun, like this was some sort of game, and it was winning.

"You are going to tell me where your friends are hiding. If you do not, that precious little girl is going to be shocked, burned, and cut into tiny pieces. And then I'm going to kill her. I will give you twenty minutes to make your decision." A clock lit up on the side of the wall, counting down from twenty minutes. "I have faith in you, Mr. Wagner. I expect you to choose correctly. Good-bye."

The speakers shut off with an audible "click". Kurt stared at the wall. What was he supposed to do? He couldn't sacrifice the life of an innocent child for their cause, but he couldn't betray his family like that. That person had left him with no options.

Plans raced through his head, but none of them were viable. In five minutes he had determined that there was no way out of this. He had to tell them where Professor Xavier and the students were. He hoped they would understand why he'd done it.

"Angel?" Isolde asked in German, eyes wide. He wished she would stop calling him that. It made him think of Warren and the others.

"Yes, Princess?" He replied distractedly in the same language.

"What did the man on the speakers say?"

"He said…it doesn't matter Isolde. Don't worry about it." He still wasn't really paying attention.

"Angel," she pulled on his arm so he'd look at her; she sounded determined, "He said something bad. I know he did. Please tell me. I want to help."

"It's nothing you could help with, Princess, but thank you. Just go back to…" He trailed off, thinking. Maybe she could help. He'd never asked Isolde what her mutant power was. It was possible that she could do something about the collars and then he could teleport them out of here. It would be hard; the nearest place he knew of was near the edge of his limits, and he was still exhausted, but it was worth a try.

"Princess," he said slowly, "I know you can do something special, something that no one else can do. What is it?"

Isolde looked around, as if to see if anyone was listening, then whispered to Kurt, "I'm Boss of Machines. I can tell them what to do and they listen to me. They tried to make the machines stop talking when they took me by putting this collar thingy on, but I just told it to turn off. It's a machine, too."

Kurt looked at the clock quickly. Thirteen minutes left.

"Isolde, do you think you could turn off my collar, too? Then I could get us out of here."

Isolde nodded and stared at the collar. It took her longer than it normally would have, because she was still tired from saving the children. By the time she looked up and nodded at him, the clock read two minutes.

"Good job, Isolde." Kurt praised, "Now hang on tight to me, okay? What I'm going to do might make you feel funny, but it's going to get us out of here."

"Alright, Angel," she replied, hugging him tightly. Just then the clock reached zero.

"Mr. Wagner, your answer please," said the cold voice immedietly.

"I decided I didn't like your options, mein Herr," he called out, "so Isolde and I came up with one of our own. Auf Wiedersehen!"

There was a loud "BAMF", a puff of smoke, and they were gone.

**Part XXXVIII**

_Blood_

People were going to die for this. There would be blood.

Like the architect who created this building, and shoved so many cables through the wall of that room into the torture chamber that it was impossible to put cameras in the cell.

And the guards outside his door. They would die for this. Because Dameon was angry, and his fury was all-consuming. It didn't discriminate between innocence and guilt. It wanted death and pain and suffering, and it would take whoever got in its way to the gates of Hell. He grabbed a gun from a drawer in his desk and slammed the door open.

When he walked back into his office his immaculate suit was splattered with blood. It wasn't his. He removed his jacket and picked up his cell phone. He was calmer; he had a plan now. Killing helped him think. He knew how to get Kurt Wagner back.

He didn't much care about the girl. She was too little to do any real damage to his operation; she wouldn't have enough control over her powers yet. But he wanted Wagner.

He knew that the torture had taken its toll. Wagner wouldn't endanger the life of that little girl by trying to teleport more than once, and he wouldn't leave her. So he should be in the vicinity of the compound.

Dameon could have sent some sentinels out to find him. But where was the fun in that? Like everything else, this was a game, and he was going to win. He wanted to make Wagner come here of his own free will, to make him decide to return. And he knew exactly how to accomplish that.

He finished making his calls and sat back in his chair. He could relax now. Wagner would come back, and he would be in control again. He grabbed a change of clothes out of the closet in his office. It wouldn't do for someone to see him driving home with blood all over him.

**Part XXXIX**

_Needle in a haystack _

The news spread like wildfire. When Ammon heard that some mutants had broken out, he panicked. If they caught whoever it was, they would be executed.

Part of Ammon's mutant power was being able to find mutants. It made sense; after all, how could you create an illusion around someone if you didn't know where they were? He needed to find the escapees. That would be difficult however; there were so many mutants in the area.

He reached out with his power, starting on the edges of the compound and working his way into the city. He figured whoever had escaped probably wasn't going to stay anywhere near the place if they could help it.

He found them after about ten minutes of searching. A little girl and….Kurt? Ammon wasn't sure if he should be elated or terrified. On the one hand, he was glad that Kurt was free; it would be a lot easier to plan a mass jailbreak now that he was out. On the other hand, Kurt and that little girl were in a LOT of trouble right now.

He quickly cloaked them, and then grabbed his phone and pretended he had gotten a call. Time was of the essence. Ammon had never tried hiding anyone else before, especially over such a long distance, and it was tiring him rapidly. He told his partner that there was a family emergency, and to tell Mr. Lancaster to dock his pay, then rushed out the door. He didn't own a car, so he grabbed a bus to get to Kurt as fast as he could. He got off at a bus stop which two ordinary-looking people in ordinary-looking clothes were moving away from very quickly. He ran and caught up with them.

Kurt immediately dropped into a crouch to fight whoever had come up behind them, but straightened when he saw it was Ammon.

"It's alright, Princess, he's here to help," Kurt told Isolde in German.

"Ammon! Thank Gott it's you. I'll explain all this later, is there somewhere we can go?" He inquired, switching back to English.

"Yes," he answered, "follow me, and try not to look like you're in a hurry. It's two blocks down across the street."

They walked quickly to the apartment complex, and hurried up the stairs. Only after he had locked the door behind him and closed all of the windows did he let the illusion drop. He collapsed on a dirty sofa in the corner of the room, exhausted.

"Care to explain what's going on, Kurt?" he asked a moment later.

Kurt launched into an account of the events which had taken place over the past two days, with Isolde interjecting in German periodically. Ammon turned white when he heard what Dameon had said he was going to do to Isolde. It didn't really surprise him; he had known that Dameon was an evil bastard, but the way Kurt described it…the fact that Dameon had talked like it was funny, like he didn't care that a little girl was going to die…

Ammon checked the clock when Kurt was finished. His shift was over already; there was no point in going back tonight.

"So," he said, "what's the plan now that you're out? How are we going to get everyone else loose?"

"I think," Kurt began slowly, "that if I could coach Isolde, she might be able to free everyone. She already has some control, and I believe she could do things on a much larger scale with practice. I hate to bring her into this, but we don't have very many options…"

Ammon glanced at Isolde. She was six years old, and she didn't speak English. This was going to be difficult.

"We have a lot of work to do," he said. Kurt nodded. Ammon suddenly realized how tired he was, and how tired Kurt and Isolde must have been. Isolde was nodding off at that very moment, and Kurt was probably running on adrenaline. He nodded towards the bedroom, "Isolde can sleep in there," he said, "you can have the couch, and I'll take the floor. I'll get some medical supplies in the morning." Kurt nodded and picked Isolde up, then gently tucked her in.

"Good night, Princess," he whispered in German.

"Good night, Angel," she replied sleepily. He made his way back into the main room and collapsed on the sofa. Ammon grabbed some spare blankets and a pillow and fell asleep on the floor near the stove. They were all too exhausted to dream. That was good. They would have had nightmares.


	11. Chapter 11

**Part XL**

_First Play_

Kurt hadn't come back. They'd taken him away, what? Two days ago? It was hard to tell how much time had passed in here. She didn't hold out much hope that he'd return.

She was distracting herself by trying to phase. If she could only become intangible for a fraction of a second, the collar would simply fall off of her. Unfortunately, after the first time Kurt had teleported over here, someone had gotten paranoid and turned the collars up to maximum. She might as well be a human for all the control she had.

The doors opened. Kitty rushed to the front of the cell. Maybe, just maybe…

She heard four sets of feet on the floor, then the beeping sounds of a door being released. There was some yelling and commotion for a few minutes. It wasn't any of the X-Men; the guards were being pummeled, despite their superior numbers. Then there were loud banging sounds, and two thuds. The hallway was silent for a second, then the X-Men who could tell what was going on started protesting loudly. Kurt wasn't here right now, and they had to do something. They couldn't just sit there.

The guards left without another word. The protests and noisy escape attempts from Wolverine stopped when the doors closed.

"Who did they take?" Kitty asked. She didn't want to know, but she needed to.

"Lorna and Alex," came Wolverine's rough voice from the other end of the hallway.

And so it began.

**Part XLI**

_Fairy Tales_

Several hours after Kurt, Isolde, and Ammon had fallen into a deep slumber, Isolde started to dream. She was walking down a white hallway. It was cold, and empty. She called out for her Engel, but there was no answer. She got scared, and began to run, looking for a way out. But the hall didn't end; it just kept going and going; then it started to fill with white stuff. Isolde ran faster, but it was no use. It was everywhere, she was going to die like Katy; she screamed for the Engel, terrified.

Isolde woke up crying and breathing hard. She got up and stumbled out of the bedroom, and over to her Engel. She hesitated. She didn't want to bother him, but she was really scared…

"Engel?" she said quietly. Glowing yellow eyes opened, and directed their attention to her.

"Isolde?" He muttered sleepily. He noticed the tear tracks on her face and sat up, gesturing for her to sit next to him. "What happened, Princess? What's wrong?" he asked, automatically speaking German.

"I had a bad dream," she whispered, "It was cold, and scary, and, and, you weren't there." She started to cry again. She didn't want to be alone anymore.

"Shh, it's alright," he soothed, "I'm here now. Do you want to talk about it?" She shook her head.

"I don't want to think about it anymore. Will you tell me a story?" that's what her Mutter and Vater used to do when she had nightmares.

"Of course, Princess. Who would you like to hear about? Hansel and Gretel? Goldilocks and the Three Bears? The Three Little Pigs?"

Isolde sniffled. Her tears were subsiding. It was going to be okay. Her Engel hadn't left, and he was going to tell her a story.

"Can you tell me about Princess Isolde? Please?" she asked, looking up at him.

"You want to hear about the beautiful Princess Isolde? Well, let's see…" This was going to require some serious editing. The tale of Tristan and Isolde wasn't exactly child-friendly. He'd have to improvise.

"Once upon a time, in a land far, far, away, there lived a beautiful princess named Isolde," he began, "she was the kindest, gentlest, most loving person in the Kingdom, and all of her people adored her."

"What's 'adored'?" interrupted Isolde.

"It means they loved her, Princess," Kurt answered, then continued, "One day Isolde's parents told her that she was going to marry the King of Cornwall, who ruled the Kingdom next to her father's. There was to be a great celebration, with dancing, and music, and many people."

"Were Isolde and the King in love?" Isolde asked. She was staring at him, hanging on to his every word.

"No, they were not," Kurt replied, "Isolde was in love with a handsome knight named Tristan, but they had to keep it a secret from everyone, because they were not supposed to be in love."

"Why not?" the little girl queried.

"It was against the rules for a princess to be in love with a knight," Kurt supplied.

"That's a silly rule."

"Yes, it is, Princess, but there were some very strange rules in Isolde's Kingdom. Can I tell you the rest of the story now?" Isolde nodded.

"Princess Isolde became very sad when she heard that she was going to marry the King. Her Mother and Father were worried about her, because all she did was cry. They didn't know what was wrong."

"They asked the King, whose name was Mark, to come to their castle and see if he could cheer her up. When he arrived, he had to wait three days before she would let him see her. When she finally let him in to her room, he asked,

'Isolde, my beautiful bride, what is troubling you?'

'Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I cannot tell you,' she said, 'for I do not wish this secret to cause you pain, as it does me.'

'To see a lady such as yourself weep so is pain enough. Please, tell me, why you despair, my darling?' said Mark, for though he did not love Isolde, he was a good man, and did not like to see a woman in such distress.

'Your Majesty, though it would be an honor to be wed to you, my heart belongs to another man. It is for him, and our lost love, that I mourn.' She told him, still crying.

'Fair Lady,' Mark said, taking her hands in his, 'your plight touches my heart. If you love another, then you have only to ask for your freedom, and it shall be yours.'

'Majesty!' she cried, overjoyed, 'Thank you! May your name be blessed forever, may angels sing your praise! You have made me the happiest woman alive this day!' Mark smiled at her, knowing that he had done the right thing. She excused herself, and went to tell Tristan what had happened."

Isolde's face wrinkled in an expression of confusion.

"What?" she said baffled. Kurt laughed.

"Isolde told King Mark about her love for Tristan, and he said she was free to marry Tristan if she wanted to," he explained. Comprehension dawned in her eyes, and she nodded for him to finish the story.

"And so Tristan and Isolde were married, and everyone lived happily ever after. The end," he finished.

"I liked that story," said Isolde thoughtfully, "but what does 'happily ever after' mean?"

"It means that everyone's dreams came true, Princess," he said, "like they always do."

**Part XLII**

_Hunt_

Duct tape, check. Gloves, check. Knife, check. Spelled shackles, check. Chloroform, check. Van, check.

He was ready. The trumpets were sounding, the dogs were baying. It was time to hunt.

It was sooner than he would have liked. But phase one needed to be completed before phase three could begin. He strode over to the wall of screens, and cranked the sound up to check on phase two.

The black X-Man was screaming. They were wild, insane, frantic screams. Dameon smiled. Music to his ears. WASP LEG was working perfectly. He muted the TV's and strode out of the room, locking the door behind him. He walked into his garage, and drove away in his van.

When he got back, he looked just as clean and impeccably dressed as when he had left. There was no blood, no telltale fibers, nothing. The only thing that was different was his expression. He was smiling.


	12. Chapter 12

**Part XLIII**

_The Movie_

The next morning when Kurt got up, Isolde was still asleep in the bed, where he'd put her after she'd drifted off sitting next to him, and there was a note on the refrigerator from Ammon.

Kurt,

It read,

I have to go to work to let them know I'm going to need a while off because there's been a "family crisis". I'll be back soon. I've cloaked you, so you can go wherever you want, but be careful- I think Lancaster's locked down this part of the city or something; there's no one outside. It's kinda creepy. Anyway, there's a grocery store down the black, and $$ in the third drawer- can you grab some milk? We're all out, and Isolde'll probly need some. Thx!

-A

Kurt found the money, and then went to wake Isolde.

"Princess, wake up," he said in German, shaking her gently. She opened her eyes and looked up at him sleepily.

"I have to leave for a while, but I'll be back later" he said, "don't leave the house, alright?" She nodded, then closed her eyes again, and was back in dreamland.

Poor thing, she must be exhausted. The level of control she'd exhibited took a lot of energy in one so young.

He left the apartment building and started down the street. Ammon had been right; this certainly was eerie; there were no people anywhere. All the stores were closed, the streets were empty; the only people he saw were looking out of apartment windows. Apparently this Lancaster character had ordered everyone to stay inside.

Kurt tried not to be nervous. He kept reminding himself that no one could tell he was a mutant, but it was hard to let his guard down when all of this had obviously been done because of the escape.

He wandered past a bakery and came to a video store. The door was open, and the writing on the glass pane made him stop dead in his tracks.

Come in, Mr. Wagner. The lives of the X-Men depend on your cooperation.

It said, in spiky, messy handwriting.

He entered the shop warily. The entire thing reeked of being a trap, but what choice did he have? He couldn't let anyone, let alone his family, die because of him.

On the counter next to the cash register there was a DVD and another note.

Go into the back room and put this in the player.

It instructed. He carefully picked the DVD up and went into the room behind the counter. An ancient television was hooked up to a cheap DVD player on a card table near the back of the room. He inserted the disk into the machine.

Words came onto the screen.

Everything you're about to see is your fault,

It told him,

You abandoned them. It's because you left that I'm doing this.

The screen came to life.

Bishop. Screaming at the top of his lungs; there was something on his head that looked like Cerebro, only more sinister. They stabbed him. Kurt watched in horror as the life left him, as he stopped screaming, went limp…

Lorna. Silent tears streamed down his face as they whipped her, shocked her, cut her. She didn't scream. Then they put that thing on her head. She whimpered at first, begging, pleading for mercy, then she screeched and thrashed and sobbed. They didn't take it off until after they'd lit a fire under her and let her burn to death. He couldn't move couldn't look away, as much as he wanted to; he owed it to them, to watch so he'd know, so no one would ever forget…

Alex. Oh, Lord, not Alex, too, not Scott's brother. He'd failed Scott. Not him too.

Alex was already crazy when Kurt saw him, already bleeding, already dying. But they just had to make it worse.

They hung him. And they didn't snap his neck, either. They deliberately let him gasp and writhe on the rope until he was out of air, out of fight.

The last image was his eyes. They were, wild insane, terrified. They were pleading with him for mercy; _save me!_ They said. Kurt would never forget those eyes.

He sat there, shocked, horrified, scarred, as more words appeared.

Come back, or that's what they'll all get. You don't have to bring the girl. I won't even try to catch her. Your other friends are safe, for now, but if you don't come back, they'll go the same way. You have until sundown.

The screen went dark for a moment. But they weren't finished.

Oh, and congratulations, Mr. Wagner.

You're a murderer.

**Part XLIV**

_Checkmate_

Kurt stayed at the abandoned store for a long while, frozen in shock. He had failed them. In trying to do the right thing he had condemned members of his family to death. It was his fault.

He owed them his life. A thousand times over. And when they needed him most he hadn't been there.

He kept thinking of the look on Alex's face before he died, full of pain, incomprehension, and fear. All that was Kurt's fault. He knew it, and it pierced his soul.

He got up and slowly walked out of the store. He looked as if he were in a trance. He walked right past Ammon's apartment building, kept going. Towards the compound.

Gradually he came back to himself, realized where he was heading, but he didn't break stride. He had to do this. He deserved whatever he got.

He realized that he would have to do something to throw Ammon off his location, so that he would appear to be himself. Teleporting should work.

He scaled the mighty walls surrounding the prison with ease, and spied the only doors into the place. He also discovered that it was a lot larger than he had previously known; there looked to be a factory on the side of the building, and barracks. Had it been any other moment, he would have cared about the people who were obviously being housed there.

He concentrated on the doors. It took him more effort than it normally would have. He was basically running on adrenaline, and was still exhausted from his escape, but in the end there was the trademark BAMF and the cloud of smoke to mark his passage.

It worked. When they burst out of the door with guns, yelling at him to get down, he looked like himself. It was all so surreal, so dreamlike; as though none of it was really happening. They put an inhibitor collar on him, and marched him back into Hell.

He had been correct about the doors being in the torture chamber. When they walked in, he smelled the harsh scent of bleach and other cleaning products that they used to get rid of the blood. He thanked the Lord that no one was being tortured at the moment.

Someone was standing in the middle of the cavernous, forbidding, room. Someone wearing a smile that didn't touch his cold, dethatched eyes.

"Hello, Mr. Wagner," he said, "My name is Dameon Lancaster. I'm very glad you could join us."

It was the man from the speakers. It was the person who had created that DVD, tortured his family, killed innocent children.

Evil had a face.

**Part XLV**

_Triumph_

Dameon congratulated himself on a job well done. His trap had been perfect.

He had guessed that the blue mutant and that stupid little brat would be close to the camp; they wouldn't have had the energy to go any farther. He had also guessed that Wagner would try to procure some food for the child. Based on these assumptions, he had cordoned off several of the blocks surrounding the compound. He had then placed these stations with the DVD's in them at regular intervals in those blocks, inferring correctly that Wagner would pass one of them, and be compelled to stop. And then, of course, Wagner would come back, just like all those other idiotic, bleeding-heart X-Men would have. Pathetic. All of them.

He had known that Wagner would never attempt to liberate his friends; as an X-Men he could not justify risking the lives of all the other mutants held captive here and elsewhere. Even if he had managed to teleport into the control room and shut off the main power, all the employees carried cell phones with which to contact the government in case of a crisis.

Besides, Dameon hadn't given him enough time to concoct a truly brilliant plan. Anything he had had time to come up with would be full of holes, and easy to pick apart. There had been no contest. Game, set, match.

Dameon looked at the mutant chained to the cold, hard, operating table in front of him. He looked neither determined nor defiant; only defeated. Dameon smiled. Victory was so sweet.

He picked up WASP LEG and walked over to Wagner.

"I thought you might like to know what caused your friends' unfortunate mental conditions in the final hours of their lives," he said, a sick kind of enjoyment in his voice, "This is WASP LEG. It's a delightfully painful instrument. It can drive one insane in a matter of hours. It performed excellently on your comrades." He leaned in next to Kurt's ear and continued,

"Of course, they were only test subjects. I've been very interested to see how well it would perform on you. And now that you're here, I can finally complete my experiment."

Kurt's eyes continued to stare blankly at the ceiling.

"Oh, one more thing," said Dameon pleasantly, "I lied. It was never about whether or not you came back. I'm going to maim, torture and kill all of your friends anyway, and when you're crazy, there'll be nothing you can do about it. So you've failed everyone once again, Mr. Wagner," he smiled, as Kurt's eyes lit in anger and anguish, "including your sister. Look." He pointed to the other side of the room over Kurt's head, and Kurt turned his face to follow Dameon's finger.

Dameon smiled like a jack-o-lantern as Kurt's eyes widened with pain, guilt, disbelief, and began to chortle as he screamed,

"Jimaine! Amanda! Nien, nien! Jimaine!" he yelled, undisguised agony in his voice. He kept screaming, as if that would bring her back. She was hours dead now, covered in blood with blue lips, and an expression on her face of pure terror.

Dameon had been right. It had been a delightful kill.

**Part XLVI**

_Final Moments _

There was nothing Dameon could have done that would have been worse. Absolutely nothing.

He had killed members of both of Kurt's families. Tortured them, made them suffer. There could be no greater torment for him then to have to watch them die, and then to see Amanda like that. And to know that the whole thing was entirely his fault.

He was supposed to take charge. He was supposed to get them out. Scott had trusted him. And he had failed; failed to protect them, failed to free them. He had failed everybody; Jimaine, Isolde, Ammon, the X-Men. Everybody.

They were all dead or doomed, and there was nothing he could do anymore to fix it. So he did the only things he could do as Dameon lowered WASP LEG onto his head. He prayed to the Lord to grant him mercy, and screamed his sister's name.


	13. Chapter 13

Hi there!

Apologies for the horrendous wait. I just couldn't seem to get this part right. I think I've finally done it, though so here it is!

It's a little out there, but I hope you like it anyway.

R&R please. Peace out!

-Elle

* * *

**Part XLVII**

**Stronger**

Kurt had always been strong. He didn't break, he didn't give up. Everyone who knew him knew that, even if he didn't. But he wasn't strong enough for this.

He just…couldn't. He couldn't watch those things happening before his eyes; know that they were his fault. He couldn't see his entire family in that much pain, hear them screaming as they died, and not be able to help them. It was worse than anything that had ever been done to him.

He couldn't move, or speak, or do anything to help them as they were slaughtered. And every time one of them died, he died, too; their pain was his pain.

His flesh burned. He tasted the blood in his mouth, felt himself be ripped apart, choked, drowned, felt every possible horror inflicted upon him. And while he felt this he heard their voices in his head, their final thoughts, _Why? Why did you leave us? How could you? Your friends, your family…we loved you. How could you abandon us when we needed you most? Why, Kurt?_

And his silent, unheard, reply;

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I never meant to hurt you, I'm so sorry. _As the tears ran down his face in streams and he screamed for them without sound.

There was no way for him to know that it was all just and illusion, a nightmarish reality concocted by WASP LEG; that the rest of the X-Men were still being housed in the complex nearby.

He had no way of knowing that his screams weren't silent to Dameon Lancaster, no way of knowing that with every scream, the man laughed at his pain, reveled in it, enjoyed it.

It all seemed so real.

How desperately he wanted to give up; to surrender to the insanity that was so eager to embrace him, that wanted to save him from the torture.

But something in him said no.

Something in him said, you are not giving up, you are made of stronger stuff than that.

Something in him said, they need you, they're counting on you, you _can't_ give up.

You can't give up.

You can't give up.

We can't give up.

For at that moment there were two of them there, in the darkness with the torture. The something that said no had birthed a creature to survive the Hell. Something almost Kurt Wagner, but not at all.

Something that was part of him, yet wholly separate.

It was everything he did not want to be.

Violent

Indifferent

Merciless

Emotionless

It was monstrous.

But it was stronger.

Not strong like him, not strong in the same way; in a different way. But in the right way for what needed to be done.

It formed a mirror image of him, concocted from shadows. Eyes that were not his glinted from the creature.

Ice blue eyes.

Eyes that stared at him, challenging him.

And Kurt was left to make a choice.

If he quelled this monster here and now, let himself, and every aspect of him, be taken into the madness, he would be killed by Dameon. And it would be over for all of them. Everyone would be doomed.

But if he let it live...

Let it rule him. Overpower him, control him…

Then they had a chance.

It came down to one question.

Did his family mean more to him than his principles?

The answer was immediate and required no internal debate.

Ja.

So, Gott forgive him, he let the monster out.

And Specter was born.

**Part XLVIII**

**Awakening**

The screaming stopped abruptly.

The laughter went on a second longer, and then it stopped as well.

Dameon looked down at the figure on the table and frowned. What was wrong with this infernal machine? He bent over to examine the controls.

There was nothing wrong with WASP LEG. The torture was still proceeding in accordance with what Dameon had ordered. Specter had simply relegated the scenes to inconsequential for the moment.

He considered killing Lancaster here and now, but determined that his newly discovered body was too weak at the moment. It would be unwise to attempt it. He lay, unmoving for a few moments, assessing the situation.

He was trapped in a facility against his will, bound to a table, wearing an inhibitor collar, and some kind of torture device. There were doors. He knew where they were, but they were guarded.

The primary objective for the moment was to escape.

There were two plausible ways to accomplish this.

Option one: Attempt to escape through the doors.

Option two: Teleport out.

The least dangerous was option two, since he was not in peak physical condition. It would be painful. Specter ignored that fact. Pain was irrelevant.

BAMF.

He was gone.

Dameon stared at the table for a few seconds, astonished.

Then he roared for his guards.

Someone was going to die for this.

**Part XLIX**

**Hello, my name is…**

Specter appeared as far away from the complex as his teleportation abilities would allow. He immediately took a fighting stance, searching for enemies. When he found none, he stood, and began walking quickly toward what memory told him was the nearest safe location.

He noted everything about his surroundings.

It smelled of rotting garbage, and smoke in this part of town. All the buildings looked dilapidated, uncared for. The pavement was warm under his unshod feet, and caked with grime. He noticed there were no people about, and quickened his pace. The sooner he reached his destination, the less conspicuous he would be.

He came to Ammon's apartment building and hurried inside, BAMFing past the desk clerk (He saw her wrinkle her nose at the smell of brimstone in his peripheral vision) and slinking up the stairs via the shadows. He took out the key to the apartment (Lancaster had been too eager for the kill to search him), and went inside.

He looked at the dismal surroundings. A dirty kitchen, with grimy green countertops, and broken, off-white cabinets. An ancient refrigerator labored loudly in one corner, standing almost directly next to a stove that clearly belonged in another era. A microwave, in need of some repair and a thorough scrubbing, stood on a counter near the sink, which was overflowing with dirty dishes. The floor was covered in grime.

The rest of the apartment was in much the same state, he observed.

He noted a sleeping child in the bedroom. Isolde Adler, memory confirmed. Good, she was not a threat, then.

While he had been inspecting his surroundings, he had determined that the apartment, in its current state was unacceptable. He needed an environment in which he could successfully plan to liberate the trapped mutants in the compound. He therefore conducted a rapid search for cleaning materials and tools, and then got to work.

Ammon burst in the door about an hour later to an immaculate apartment.

He had been told that a mutant had escaped from the torture room, and Kurt had gone missing earlier that day for a while; Ammon had not been able to locate and shield him. He wasn't stupid. He knew what that meant.

Isolde was huddled on the couch, crying softly.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" He knelt by her, trying to comfort her while looking for Kurt. "Kurt? Kurt, where are you? God, you're such an idiot, why the hell did you do that?" he yelled, half infuriated with Kurt for disappearing, half worried about what could have happened to him, "And how did you manage to escape?"

Kurt came walking out of the bedroom. At least, Ammon thought it was Kurt. But there was something…wrong about him. He just couldn't figure out what it was.

"Mr. Ammon, I presume?" He said. There was something wrong with that voice, too. No accent.

"…Kurt?" Ammon said hesitantly.

"No, actually," Kurt replied, "Mr. Wagner has taken…an extended leave of absence, as it were. My name is Specter. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"…You okay, Kurt?" Ammon asked, "I know something happened while I was gone…"

"I assure you I am perfectly fine, Mr. Ammon. I would appreciate if you would stop calling me Kurt, however, as that is not my name."

Ammon was suddenly mad at Kurt. They had no time for this. Lives were on the line, and they were wasting precious seconds.

"Kurt, cut the crap. If you've got issues we can work them out later. There's no time for this now. Lives are at stake!"

"I am aware of this." Kurt said calmly, "Which is why I think it would be beneficial for you to accept the fact that I am not Mr. Wagner, so that-"

"Bull shit!" Ammon yelled, scaring Isolde. He lowered his volume and said fiercely, "This isn't funny, and we don't have the time so just cut it out! Right now, Kurt! I mean it!"

Kurt's eyes flashed. But they weren't Kurt's eyes.

They were ice blue.

In one swift movement he reached down, grabbed Ammon's shirt front and slammed him into the wall.

"I do not take kindly to imbeciles." He hissed, "So listen very carefully. My name is not Kurt Wagner. He is gone, and he will not be returning in the foreseeable future, so you will stop addressing me by his name so that we may complete the primary objective. Have I made myself clear, Mr. Ammon?"

And that's when Ammon knew. It couldn't be Kurt. Kurt would never do that. And now that he thought about it, Kurt would never have left Isolde crying on the couch, either. This thing, this Specter, was more like Dameon Lancaster than Kurt. But it was wrong. Kurt was coming back, and soon, if Ammon had anything to do with it.

He nodded, and Specter set him down.

"So, what now…Specter? Ammon asked icily, as he brushed himself off.

Specter didn't react to his tone, although he noted it.

"I need you to procure these items," he said, handing Ammon a list, "and look after Miss Adler."

"Wait, I thought Isolde was part of the plan? The only way to ensure no one got hurt?" Ammon said quickly, because Specter was moving towards the bedroom door.

"That is no longer an issue." He said, as he closed the door behind him.

That somehow made him dread what was to come.

"Meine Engel ist gefallen" Isolde said sadly.

If Ammon had understood her, he would have concurred completely.


	14. Not an update

God, I feel like such a terrible person.

So, yeah, this isn't an update. I'm really glad people like this story, and I'm not bailing out on all of you; I'll definitely be finishing Specter, I'm just really busy at this particular moment; I'm writing this joint thing with my friend for the Anime Axis Powers: Hetalia, and I have this other project going on with my other friend on LJ, and there's school…

So, I just wanted you to know that I'm still alive, and that this is totally on my to-do list.

Thank you, everyone, for the reviews; you guys are making me feel incredibly guilty about not updating. =)

I'll talk to you all later! Thanks for your patience!

-Elle


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